


The Heart of That Man

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Fix-It, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-09 15:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18640762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: In which Eliot wakes up after being possessed to find that Quentin has pulled away from everyone.(the events of the end of S4 have been altered because of course they have)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was discussing on tumblr how I thought that they might've been heading towards paralleling Quentin & Eliot with Kady/Penny 40, when Kady yells at him when she's in the hospital. They didn't do that, so I guess I'm doing it now. Here we are.   
> Anyway, I'm coping by writing angst now. (I know it says this in the tags, too, but: cw for suicidal thoughts)  
> The song lyrics are Arms Unfolding by dodie.

_Hope I'm not tired of rebuilding_

_'Cause this might take a little more_

_I think I'd like to try look at you_

_And feel the way I did before_

_\---_

_You should know that your friend Eliot is dead._

The words echoed in Quentin’s mind. He was never going to stop hearing them.

With those words, his whole drive shattered. He’d been careful, kind, treating the Monster with kid gloves. He’d let the Monster hurt him, and toy with him, and get attached to him. Because there was always the chance, the _chance,_ that Eliot was alive.

Quentin remembered asking.

_Could I maybe have Eliot back?_

It had been stupid, a pointless venture into the compassion that Quentin would learn the Monster didn’t even have.

But it had been something. It had been a small spark of hope, a flare of possibility that meant Quentin didn’t have to give up.

Because the Monster hadn’t said _no._ He’d gotten upset, and he’d made it clear he didn’t like Eliot, and he made it clear he’d chosen Eliot’s body for a reason, but he _hadn’t said no._

He hadn’t said Eliot was gone. He hadn’t said that he would never give Eliot back. There was still a chance, of _something._

But now…

_You should know that your friend Eliot is dead._

_Friend._ What a wholly inadequate word to describe everything Eliot was to Quentin. But what else could he be called?

There was this small, awful part of Quentin, the part that told him life wasn’t worth living, the part that told him that everyone would be better off without him, the part that told him about the nearest tall building with roof access. The part that had manifested when he’d touched that key on his boat quest, the part that told him he was _never_ going to feel okay.

That small part, that dark, angry, hopeless part—

The part of Quentin felt _relief._

Quentin hated himself for it. How could he feel relieved at this? How could he? What was _wrong_ with him?

But that part of him—

_If Eliot is dead, that means you can stop trying. Don’t you want to? Don’t you want to let go? Isn’t this all so exhausting? Q, it’s okay, if Eliot can’t be saved, then there’s nothing you can do. You’re not needed anyway. You can escape this, all of it, all of it. Eliot is dead. You can stop._

Quentin felt sick.

These thoughts, these feelings—

He knew them well.

And honestly, how _dare_ they come back like this and use Eliot’s death against him?

Because yeah, Quentin was tired. Yeah, Quentin wanted this to be done. He wanted it to be over. But not like _that._

But Quentin couldn’t deny the bit of relief. Eliot was dead; it was over.

God, _how_ could he think like that?

_You should know that your friend Eliot is dead._

Quentin couldn’t deal with the complexities of everything that sentence made him feel. The grief, the disbelief, the horror, the hopelessness, that little bit of _fucking_ relief—it was all too much to handle. Shove it down, skip straight to acceptance because he couldn’t _fucking deal with it._

But at least he knew the next step now. They needed to get rid of the Monster. Quentin could stop all his coaxing and all his placating, and they could actually send the Monster back to Blackspire, and then at least one thing on their laundry list of bullshit problems would be through.

They had a mission. They had a goal. They had a series of steps to complete the plan.

Granted, one of those steps was bleeding a fucking rock, because honestly, fuck magic, and fuck gods, and fuck everything that brought him here.

Was any of it worth it?

And then. Every step of the way had been another moment to lose hope, another moment to get hurt, another moment to feel like the world was ending.

The moment had come to kill the Monster, and Quentin had braced himself for it. He had steeled himself, knowing how much it would _kill_ him to watch Eliot die, but knowing it would at least be over after this.

And _then._

The Monster’s eyes had changed. His voice had changed. And the world tilted.

_Q, it’s me, it’s Eliot._

No, bullshit, Eliot is gone—don’t _tell_ me that Eliot is back, don’t give me that hope back, I can’t _do this anymore,_ it’s killing me already.

_Fifty years. Who gets proof of concept like that?_

And Quentin’s heart stopped.

_Peaches and plums, motherfucker. I’m alive in here._

And that small, dark part of Quentin—it screamed.

_Please don’t make me try again. Please don’t give me hope. I can’t handle it anymore, I can’t handle having anything else taken away. Don’t give Eliot back for a fleeting moment, don’t tell me he’s alive, just let me be done, let me be done, let me be done._

Quentin could hardly believe it all. Hope had come back—Eliot was _alive._ His heart tightened with guilt, with hope, with dread, with fifty _years_ worth of love.

He’d wanted to give up on Eliot. He’d _wanted_ it to be over. And he could never forgive himself for that, and he could never face that, and he could _never_ acknowledge that small, dark part of his that had been horrified to learn that Eliot could still be saved.

All that mattered now was saving Eliot. 

\---

Eliot’s eyes fluttered open. Every inch of him was in pain. His muscles ached, his head pounded, his abdomen felt like it had been ripped apart.

But the pain meant something important. He was alive, and his body belonged to him again.

His fingers felt strange, distant, like he would have to take some time to get used to having a physical form again. No matter. It would be _okay,_ it was all going to be okay now. He was _alive._ He was _here._

He could pull everything back together. All the strands of himself, of his psyche, of his life. It might take time, it might take effort, but _God,_ it was going to be worth it. He could wash his hair. He could change his clothes. He could smile and laugh and have the sounds reach the outside world.

Eliot had never felt like this about being alive. He’d always been a little ambivalent about the concept as a whole.

Growing up where he had, growing up who he was, it had always felt like life had been a punishment inflicted on him. Like he’d had some bad karma and needed to learn a lesson in pain and humility. Only Eliot took the pain and humility and turned it into unhealthy coping and false arrogance, so the karma system didn’t quite work.

But now…

The Monster had taken over his body, his life, for the better part of a year. Eliot could feel the vague, repressed memories of everything the Monster had done like a whisper in the back of his mind. The horrors that his hands had been responsible for.

And yet, Eliot felt like life could be so goddamn beautiful, like the world was open and full of endless possibility. It was a mess, yes, but it was _his_ mess. It was his, and he loved it.

The world existed to be lived in, and Eliot was _alive_.

He tried to lean up, a sharp pain in his gut making him wince.

“Eliot,” Margo said suddenly, grabbing his hand. “You’re awake, you’re awake, oh my god, you scared me, you fucking dick.”

Eliot chuckled lightly. “Slow down, Bambi.”

Margo squeezed his hands tightly. “Do you have _any_ idea what I went through for you? You better be _fucking_ grateful, and you better stay out of trouble now, because not a chance in _hell_ am I doing any of that again for you. One time offer, you fucking prick.”

“Oh, Bambi, we both know that’s a lie,” Eliot said, a small wry smile. “You love me, and you would do it all again.”

Margo glared. “Okay, fine, but if you make me save your sorry ass again, I’m cutting off your dick and feeding it to some fucking pigeons. Don’t think I won’t.”

Eliot pulled Margo’s hand to his mouth, kissing it softly. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of it. And I _am_ grateful.”

Margo’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “I missed you so much, El,” she said, her voice getting suddenly uncharacteristically quiet and broken.

Eliot smiled. “And I you, Bambi, my love.”

She pulled his hand close to her chest, hugging it tightly. “I don’t think I told you enough how much I love you.”

“No worries,” Eliot replied. “We have all the time in the world for that now.”

As overjoyed as Eliot was to see Margo, there was someone else he was waiting for, too—

The way Quentin had looked at him, those _eyes,_ full of love and hope and relief, and _maybe maybe maybe—_

Maybe it could happen now. Eliot was _ready_ now. He was ready to be brave. _Who gets proof of concept like that?_

Eliot glanced around the room, a flicker of optimism in his chest. But he and Margo were alone.

“Where is our little Q?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Margo hesitated, rubbing a thumb along Eliot’s knuckles. “He’s… not here.”

Listen, Eliot didn’t want to be presumptuous, but he _had_ seen many movies in which someone nearly dies and is in the hospital and they wake up to their friends sleeping on chairs in the corners of the room. He knew Quentin to be the type to have that kind of devotion.

But Quentin wasn’t here.

“Where is he?” Eliot asked hesitantly. _Please say on a coffee run or something, please say he’s been waiting for me too, please say he wanted to be here when I woke up._

Maybe it was a little selfish. Maybe it was a little childish. But Eliot wanted to _know._

“I’m not sure,” Margo said slowly. “After… Well, after we got _you_ back, Quentin and Alice went to lock the Monsters back in Blackspire. Josh is—” she stopped, trying to cover the way her voice choked with a cough— “Josh stayed behind as the new jailer. Through some fucked up fish magic, he’s the only one the monsters can’t possess, so…”

Now, Eliot wasn’t an expert, nor did he know what “fucked up fish magic” entailed, but the way Margo’s voice trembled… He hadn’t been here for it, but it seemed she’d grown quite fond of Hoberman. “Margo, I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head. “It was what made sense,” she said firmly. Her eyes betrayed her, though. “Anyway, Kady and Julia and 23 went to lock some fucking evil Librarian in the mirror realm, and now Kady is negotiating with the Library on how to handle their authoritarian bullshit.”

“That all sounds like quite the resolution,” Eliot said lightly. _She hasn’t answered the question. Where is Quentin?_ Eliot didn’t want to ask again. He felt some dread creeping as he imagined what could’ve happened, how it could’ve gone wrong, what fate could’ve done to screw over Quentin this time.

Margo nodded. “Yeah, all the fucking crises are taken care of. Onto the next ones.” She sighed, holding Eliot’s hand tightly. “When it was all done, they all came back to see you. Make sure you were alive and healing and all that. Then they all left again, back to whatever lives we still have.”

Eliot swallowed. He felt some grief gnawing at him. _Quentin hadn’t stayed._

He didn’t know what that meant. But it hurt.

“And Quentin…” he tried slowly.

Margo shook her head. “He was… in a bad place. Said he needed some time. I haven’t heard from him. Last I heard, neither had Julia or 23. Alice was the last one to see him, I think.”

 _Alice._ Right.

“How long was I out?” Eliot asked.

“Six weeks,” Margo replied.

“ _Six weeks?”_ Eliot repeated. “No one has checked on Quentin in _six weeks?”_

“Alice saw him a month ago,” Margo offered.

“Still—a _month?_ Have people _looked_ for him?” Eliot could feel his voice rising.

“El, you don’t understand, you didn’t see him,” Margo said, furrowing her brow. “He refused to talk to any of us. He wouldn’t see anyone. He wasn’t answering any of our calls. Quentin is… Look, we all went through a lot this past year. I love Q, you know I do, but at a certain point…”

“So you’re just giving up on him?”

“Eliot, that’s not fair. We all tried. And honestly, we’re all fucked up in our own ways, too. There’s only so much anyone can do. We’re all recovering.”

Eliot clenched his jaw, biting back what he wanted to say.

Margo sighed. “Look, El. He didn’t want us to help. Really, he didn’t want anything to _do_ with us anymore.”

She sounded sad, a little resigned. But Eliot refused to believe that. That _wasn’t_ the Q he knew.

“You say Alice was the last one to see him?” Eliot said.

Margo nodded.

Eliot took a breath. “Well, then. I guess I’ll have to pay her a visit.”

Margo frowned. “Eliot, I know you want to see him, but I’m telling you, this isn’t a good idea.”

Eliot shot her a sharp look.

She shrugged. “Fine, but I warned you.”

\---

Eliot held the small piece of paper in his hand tightly. The address matched.

He hadn’t expected to feel so anxious, so uncertain. But he genuinely considered just leaving—didn’t he pass a bar on the way here, wasn’t it happy hour—because he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. Or do.

It was strange to be trying to find your life-partner-from-another-timeline slash boy-you’d-had-a-crush-on-for-years via the girl said boy been in love with in this universe, and had also, incidentally, cheated on with you. There was a very, very specific kind of tension involved. They didn’t make Hallmark cards for it.

Not to mention that the last time he’d seen Alice, she’d been destroying all the work they’d done, all the pain they’d gone through, like it was nothing.

And not to mention that Margo told him Alice and Quentin had gotten back together.

It was all, well, quite a lot.

Eliot knocked on the door.

A few moments passed before Alice opened the door, looking confused and then surprised and then uncomfortable.

She clutched the door, eyes wide. “You’re here. You’re awake.”

Eliot smiled. “So I am. Are you going to let me in?”

“Right! Right, of course, come in,” Alice said quickly, stepping aside. Eliot walked in slowly, leaning heavily on his cane. “Do you want some tea, or—well, tea is kind of all I have. Chamomile? Earl grey?”

“I’ll take some earl grey, thank you,” Eliot said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Everything still hurt whenever he moved.

Alice flitted around, like she was buzzing with anxious energy. It was exhausting to watch. By the time she brought the tea over, her face was flushed.

“So Eliot,” she started hesitantly, wringing her hands. “Listen, I—okay, I know that last time you saw me was… Look. I’ve been apologizing to everyone about that, and I’ve just… I wanted to say I’m sorry. For my part in all of it. For what happened to you because of it.”

Eliot rubbed a finger against the handle of the mug. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” He offered a weak smile. “For what it’s worth, we’ve all fucked up a lot. You’re in good company.”

She smiled, wide and bright, in a way that Eliot wasn’t sure he’d _ever_ seen her smile. For a moment, he understood why Quentin had fallen so hard for her.

“When I apologized to Kady, she punched me,” Alice said.

Eliot laughed. “That sounds like Kady.”

“In fact, you’re the first one to…” Alice looked down. “I mean, I think they’ve forgiven me _now,_ but… Even Quentin wanted to slam the door in my face.”

At the mention of Quentin, Eliot’s heart sped up.

He cleared his throat, taking a sip of the tea as nonchalantly as he could manage. “Speaking of Quentin…”

“Oh,” Alice said. “Is that… Is that why you’re here?”

“Alice, I—” he started, wishing he knew what to say.

She shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I understand.” She sighed, tucking some hair behind her ear. “I know you loved him, too.”

 _Love._ Not loved. Why was she speaking in past tense?

“He wasn’t there when I woke up,” Eliot said, and it felt like such a heavy confession that it hurt to say, but… “I thought… I thought he would be.”

Alice smiled weakly. “Yeah. After watching how much he went through to get you back, I think we were all a little surprised. I thought he’d never let you out of his sight. I thought I’d have to drag him from the hospital to make him eat and shower.”

 _What he went through to get you back._ Eliot felt guilt like bile in the back of his throat.

“Margo told me you were the last person to see him,” Eliot said.

“You want to find him?”

“I’m hoping to.”

Alice took a long sip from her own mug, like she didn’t want to answer.

“Please, Alice,” Eliot said softly.

“Trust me, I’m on your side here,” Alice replied. She frowned into her mug, dragging a finger along the side of it, like she was tracing a crack in it. “I hope you can find him. And I hope you get through to him, I really do.”

Eliot paused. The way she’d said that, the way she’d said _loved_ instead of _love…_ It was like she thought Quentin was beyond helping. Beyond saving. Eliot never thought he’d see the day Alice Quinn looked defeated.

“That bad, huh?” he said.

“Quentin was…” She stopped, pursing her lips, her frown deepening like she was gathering her thoughts. “He was acting… strange. Off. When I came back at first, he’d wanted me to leave, made me promise I would, and he… He just didn’t care when I told him he was going to die, and he’d told me nothing I did would change how he felt, and… But then, it was like he completely flipped on all of it.”

Eliot swallowed. “How so?”

Alice shrugged, looking shy. “He told me he wanted to try again.” Her voice was so small that Eliot’s heart broke for her. “I thought… I thought it could be like it was. But it was different. _He_ was different. He told me he wanted to try again, but he barely looked at me. And he wouldn’t talk to me.” She sighed. “It was strange. Like he was going through the motions but didn’t feel anything.”

“And then what happened?” Eliot asked.

“What always happens with the two of us, I guess. We fell apart again,” Alice said, glancing towards the window. “We went to Blackspire, we finished the quest, we came home and… It was like he wasn’t even _here._ I’d kiss him and he’s tense up. I’d touch him and he’d flinch. He wouldn’t even say anything unless I asked him a direct question, and even then, it was mostly one word answers.”

“So, yeah, _that_ bad,” Eliot murmured, looking down at his tea. He felt a little ill, imagining Quentin in that state.

She sniffed, and Eliot caught her brushing away a tear quickly. “I confronted him. I told him we _had_ to talk about this, that he couldn’t keep going on like that.”

“And?”

“And he left. Said he couldn’t do it anymore, that it was never going to be the same, that he wanted to love me again, like he used to, but he couldn’t, and he just… He _left._ I couldn’t even…” She sighed, brushing her hair back with nervous hands. “He’d never looked at me like that before. Not even when I slept with Penny. Not even when I destroyed the keys. Not even when I tried to kiss him after he’d rejected me.”

“I’m so sorry, Alice,” Eliot said.

She shook her head. “It is what it is.” She offered Eliot a slight smile. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about our relationship drama. I know that the two of you—”

She broke off, turning back to the window.

“He loves you, too,” Eliot said softly.

“Not anymore. And never the way he loved you,” she replied.

 _Loved._ Past tense again. Eliot pushed the thoughts away.

“You know, even if it wasn’t the same as it used to be… I’m certain he could never _really_ stop loving you.”

Alice sighed. “That’s the thing. I _know_. It’s just, the way he said it… Like he really wanted to hurt me. It just… It wasn’t _Q._ ” She looked back at Eliot, eyes pained. “Last I heard, he checked himself in to the hospital. If you really want to find him.”

_If you really want to find him._

Honestly, it was less about want. Eliot _needed_ to find Quentin. He needed to talk to him.

After everything they’d been through together, he couldn’t just leave it here.

“How are you doing, though?” Alice said, leaning forward a little. She looked so earnestly concerned.

Eliot smiled. “Wonderfully, all things considered.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Alice reached forward, squeezing his hand quickly before abruptly pulling away, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to do that. “We were all so worried that you wouldn’t…”

Eliot put his hand on top of hers. “Thank you.”

Alice smiled. “I’d like to be friends again, El. Or something like it, anyway.”

“Me too,” he replied, warmed by how much he meant it.

\---

The hospital was cold and too bright. The artwork on the walls seemed to be mostly in yellows, which felt almost condescending to Eliot.

He walked slowly to the receptionist, trying not to wince. He’d really been up and walking more than had been recommended.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m here to see someone.”

The receptionist frowned. “It’s not visiting hours.”

Right. Of fucking course.

“Well… Would it be possible to get a message to him? Let him know that I came, leave a number for him to call or something?” It was worth a shot, anyway. Though if Margo and Alice were to be believed, just leaving a number wouldn’t be enough.

The receptionist nodded. “Sure, sweetie,” she said kindly, seeming to sense Eliot’s mood. Eliot did not like the idea that she could see how he was feeling. “Can I get a name for the patient?”

“Coldwater. Quentin Coldwater.”

She typed into her computer and then she frowned. She hesitated, glancing between Eliot and the screen. “I’m sorry, he’s not here.”

“Not here?” Eliot repeated.

She shook her head. “It looks like he checked out two days ago.”

Eliot rubbed the back of his neck, aching and stressed and just _sad._ He must have looked crestfallen, because the receptionist tilted her head in something like pity.

“He did leave a number,” she said gently. “In case anyone came looking for him.”

Eliot breathed a thin sigh of relief. “That would be great.”

She wrote down the number on a little blue post-it note and offered Eliot a warm, understanding smile.

Eliot practically fled outside. He ducked around the corner of the building, out of the way of any pedestrians. He stared at the number. It was a local one.

His hands shook. Why was he so nervous? It was _Quentin._

Surely, surely, no matter what Margo or Alice said, _surely_ Quentin hadn’t changed that much.

He was still the man Eliot spent a lifetime with. Nothing could take that away from them. They were always going to have that life, those memories. It was cold comfort in moments like this, but it wasn’t nothing. _Surely_ Quentin would answer the phone if it was Eliot. Right? Even if Quentin didn’t want to see Margo or Alice…

He entered the numbers on his phone. He stopped just short of calling, his finger hovering right over the button.

_Come on, Eliot. Since when have you been afraid to call a boy?_

But it wasn’t just a boy. It was Quentin. Quentin, who no one had spoken to in a month. Quentin, who Margo and Alice seemed to have given up on. Quentin, who moved heaven and earth to save Eliot’s life.

He pressed call.

It rang twice, and Eliot felt like it was an eternity.

“ _Hello_?”

Eliot froze, frowning. “ _Julia_?”

 _“Yes, who is this?”_ Julia’s voice came through, sounding confused.

“Sorry, I—sorry. It’s Eliot. Hi.”

 _“Oh my god, Eliot!”_ Julia sounded like she was fumbling with the phone. _“You’re finally awake. How are you feeling? Are you healing okay?”_

“I’m, um, I’m fine,” he said, his words a little stilted. “Listen, I… I was actually trying to call Quentin.”

There was a long pause. _“Quentin,”_ Julia repeated, her tone lowered, her voice heavy.

“Yes. Well, I heard from Alice he’d checked himself into a hospital, but I… Well, I seem to have just missed him. He checked out two days ago. He left this number at the front desk.” Eliot felt tears springing in his eyes and he tried to will them away, but… He thought he was going to hear Quentin’s voice. The phone picked up, and he thought he would hear Quentin’s voice.

Julia let out a short laugh. _“Figures. Listen, um, I’m sorry, but I haven’t talked to him in a while.”_

“Seems no one has,” Eliot replied.

 _“Yeah,”_ Julia said with a sigh. _“He told us all he needed some time.”_

“Well, he didn’t tell _me_ that, and I’d still like to see him,” Eliot said, trying to brighten his tone. It wasn’t working. “Do you have any idea where I can find him?”

 _“I’m sorry,”_ she replied. _“He was really serious about being left alone. I’ve been giving him his space.”_

Eliot clenched his jaw. He crumpled the post-it note, sticking it in his pocket and flexing his hand.

 _“He’ll come back around when he’s ready,”_ she said quietly.

“If Quentin wants me to leave him alone, he’s going to have to tell me himself,” Eliot said, feeling stubborn. “I’ve been possessed for quite some time, and apparently comatose for six weeks, and I’d really like to say hi.”

 _“Well, my first advice is let him be and just wait,”_ Julia said with a sigh. _“But if you’re not going to do that, then my advice is to just use a more complex locator spell. He’ll probably have warded against the simple ones, but two days isn’t enough time to ward up completely.”_

Eliot felt like he probably should have thought of that. “Thank you, Julia.”

 _“I’m glad you’re awake, Eliot,”_ she replied. _“Call me again after you’re finished with all this. I’d love to come visit.”_

Eliot smiled a little. “Of course. That’d be great.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway. Writing angst is fun. I am... sad.

_Oh, our fire died last winter_

_All of the shouting blew it out_

_You know I could live without or with you_

_But I might like having you about_

\---

The second-year locator spell worked like a charm. It was just a few ingredients, some twisting fingers, and a short incantation. And then Eliot had a small coin, with a slight magnetization, that would get warmer as he got closer to wherever Quentin was.

The coin was freezing cold in the Physical Cottage at Brakebills. It was freezing cold all over Brakebills.

It wasn’t until Eliot entered the New York City limits that the coin got lukewarm.

The slight magnetization of the coin nudged Eliot in the right directions, telling him when to turn.

It didn’t take all that long, but to be honest, it felt like eternity. Every second that it took to get to Quentin felt like forever, because it had already been far too long.

Finally, finally, the coin buzzed towards a building.

It was a nondescript apartment building—big and modern and bland. The kind of place that Eliot hated. No character, no beauty, no color.

Eliot walked in, choosing the stairs over the elevator because he couldn’t stand and wait any longer, ignoring the pain it caused to climb like that.

The coin took him to the top floor, to the last door in the hallway, until it burned so much that Eliot dropped it. He knelt down, wrapping it gingerly in a handkerchief and slipping it into his pocket.

And then he stared at the door. He went to knock, but his hand stopped short, hovering.

_Just do it._

It had taken so long to get here. So long since that fleeting moment that Eliot had managed to break free from possession to tell Quentin. _Peaches and plums._

Eliot missed him. He missed him so much it hurt, it ached.

He knocked. He held his breath. The world spun.

And then the door opened.

Eliot exhaled, an almost-laugh. _Quentin._

There he was, holding the door, hair shorter than Eliot remembered but still in his eyes. Quentin, brave, kind, beautiful Quentin. It was all Eliot could do to not rush forward and throw his arms around him, kiss him, beg him for another chance. _Quentin._

“Hi,” was all Eliot could breathlessly manage, his vision blurring with unshed tears.

“Eliot,” Quentin replied.

The illusion shattered. Eliot had sort of believed, deep down, that everyone was exaggerating. That Quentin would be unchanged, the same smiling, stammering guy he’d always known.

But Quentin’s voice was flat and empty. And his lips were pressed together in a thin line.

Eliot swallowed.

“May I come in?” he asked tentatively.

Quentin moved aside. He wouldn’t make eye contact, his head turned slightly away as he stared at the floor.

Eliot walked in and unraveled even more. This cold, empty place. He could never have imagined a world where Quentin lived in a place with no books, but here they were. There was a single couch with a blanket and a pillow, and a coffee table. That was all.

It was like no one lived here. Glancing back at Quentin, Eliot really wondered if it could be called living at all.

“So I woke up,” Eliot started, unsure.

“I can see that,” Quentin replied.

Eliot studied his face for a moment. Nothing. No emotion at all. Like he didn’t even care.

But that couldn’t be true. Right? Eliot had heard how hard Quentin had tried. How much of himself he’d put into saving Eliot. How he’d been so focused, how he’d refused to entertain a single suggestion that might get Eliot killed.

And yet. Here Quentin was. No reaction. Quentin, who had always worn his heart on his sleeve, who was always so honest about who and what he loved.

Eliot wanted nothing more than to be able to tell him everything, tell him what memory he’d had to go through to get to him, tell him what he meant when he said _proof of concept._ Tell him he still loved him.

But this Quentin… He didn’t think he could say anything to _this_ Quentin.

It was like they were in the Twilight Zone. Quentin, standoffish and cold, hiding any semblance of emotion. Eliot, with a confession of love resting on his tongue. They’d switched places. Eliot didn’t know what to do with that.

“I was wondering if you’d visit,” Eliot said lightly, carefully.

Quentin still didn’t look at him. _Please, please, look at me._ “I made sure you were alive.”

He made it sound like a chore. God, it _stung._

“Nice place,” Eliot tried, looking around at the bleak apartment.

Quentin let out a short sigh. “What are you doing here?” he said flatly.

“I wanted to see you,” Eliot said. It was the most obvious thing in the world to him. “You’re not an easy person to find, you know.”

Quentin snorted. “Maybe that should’ve given you a clue that I didn’t want to be found.”

Eliot couldn’t stop studying the space. It was so gray, so cold, so un-Quentin. Eliot’s heart ached at the thought of Quentin sleeping within these walls. There had to be a better way, a better way than _this._

“I wanted to thank you,” Eliot said softly. “I heard everything that you did for me.” _Please say it was because you still love me, too._

Quentin turned away.

Eliot started to touch Quentin’s shoulder. Quentin flinched, putting a hand up as he moved back.

Heart hurting, Eliot let his hands fall to his sides. “Seriously. Thank you. You saved me.”

“Yeah, well,” Quentin said, voice faltering.

There was hint of the Quentin that Eliot knew behind those words. A hint of the Quentin that Eliot had seen last, the one that had heard _proof of concept_ and _peaches and plums_ and had realization wash over his face as he stepped forward, saying Eliot’s name with all the feeling in the world.

“Quentin, I—” Eliot started slowly.

But the hint of Quentin had vanished.

“You’ve said your piece,” Quentin said, his voice back to the flat, emotionless tone. His voice empty of everything that made him Quentin. “You can go now.”

“But, Q, I—”

“ _Leave,”_ Quentin said emphatically.

He finally turned to look Eliot dead in the eyes, and Eliot wished he hadn’t.

He leaned away from Quentin’s glare. He was serious. He didn’t _want_ Eliot here. He didn’t want to see Eliot. Did he regret it? Did he regret everything he’d done, did he wish Eliot was gone? Did he…

For all Eliot’s insecurities, he’d never even considered the possibility that Quentin might truly hate him.

Until now.

“Sorry, I—” Eliot started, voice trembling, taken aback. “Sorry.”

Quentin sighed, breaking eye contact to look back at the floor. “No, I’m sorry,” Quentin replied. “Please. Just… Just go.”

“I—okay.” Because what could Eliot say now?

Quentin wouldn’t look at him. He just went and opened the door.

Eliot hesitated at the threshold. _Say something, anything._ But no words came. He’d spend a lifetime with this man. And he had _never_ seen his eyes look like that before.

He left, wincing as the door was slammed harshly behind him.

\---

Quentin slammed the door behind Eliot.

He leaned back against it, sliding to the floor. He didn’t know what to _do_ with all this anger. He hated everything, he hated air.

He hated Julia for asking him to help her with her goddess bullshit, for not seeing how he was falling apart, he hated Penny 23 for never really caring about saving Eliot, for only being around to stare longingly at Julia, he hated Margo for _only_ caring about saving Eliot, then for getting distracted by Josh, he hated Alice for taking advantage of that time spell, for kissing him when he wasn’t even _there_ to say no to her, for still being in love with him. He hated _himself_ for all of it, all of it, all of it.

And he hated Eliot. He hated Eliot for putting him through all this. He hated Eliot for being so important to him that he had to nearly destroy himself, destroy everyone, just to save him. He hated Eliot for coming back, for looking at him like that, for finding him when he wanted to be _alone._

He hated Eliot for reminding him of the Monster.

The Monster that had tortured him, broken him, healed him, caressed him, hurt him. The Monster that he had spent all that time with, the Monster that had become such a part of his life that Quentin almost missed that strange, childlike creature, with his curiosity and his lack of understanding and his odd affection.

He never really believed the Monster was gone. Every morning, he half expected to wake up to not-Eliot’s face inches from his, staring down with cold eyes. He half expected to be startled by the Monster appearing behind him, asking him distant, inhuman questions, tilting his head like he was deciding what impulse he wanted to indulge.

Quentin clenched his hands together, trying to steady his breathing.

The Monster was gone. Well, not gone. The Monster was at Blackspire, being babysat for eternity by Josh and his weird fish magic.

Quentin couldn’t help but believe, deep down, that it should’ve been _him_ to stay behind in the castle. After he spent so much time with the Monster, it seemed almost wrong that someone else would be tasked with watching him.

But here he was. Safe, in this empty apartment, while Josh took his place.

He hated Josh for that, too. He hated Josh for being the martyr of the story. He hated everyone else for agreeing to it, because it made the most _fucking sense,_ hated them for not letting him trap himself there. Hated them for not letting him destroy himself.

In truth, Quentin just knew that if he wasn’t focusing on the anger, on the hate, on the boiling emotions, he’d fall apart. He’d be crushed. At least anger gave him some ground to stand on.

If he let himself feel the rest of it, he’d freefall.

Like seeing Eliot, real-life Eliot, at his door.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

_Eliot._

He’d opened the door, and he saw the Monster before he saw Eliot. He felt the familiar twinge of horror, of fear, of panic. He felt the steel close around him, the numbness he’d had to foster in order to survive it all. In order to survive being the Monster’s plaything.

He’d seen the Monster, and he was almost relieved. Relieved that he no longer had to wait for the inevitable downfall. Relieved that he could return to the familiarity of pain and torture and numbness. Relieved that he didn’t have to navigate whatever the hell the new normal was supposed to be.

He’d seen the Monster, and he was devastated. Like any sliver of hope, any flicker of joy, any near-promise of things getting better was crushed all over again. Devastated that again, again, again, he had his fragile optimism shattered. His barely-returning sense of idealism, the hope and excitement of the person he used to be, taken away again when he’d barely even tried to begin to find it.

He’d seen the Monster, and he was terrified. Because how did it _find_ him again, how did it get out, fuck, were they going to have to go through all this _again?_ Was he ever going to be safe? Was safety a reality that would ever be available to him again? Terrified, because he’d just gotten accustomed to the concept of not having to live in a constant balancing act between violence and unwanted affection. Terrified, because he didn’t think he could survive it all a second time. The Monster returning would be a death sentence.

He’d seen the Monster, and he felt nothing. Just the broken complacency, the cynical expectations met. _Right, just in time._ This was his life, and it always would be. He felt nothing, nothing, nothing, because what was the point anymore anyway? It was always going to be like this. Inevitable. He knew, deep down, he’d never escape.

It had taken a moment, before he saw.

The furrowed brow. The uncertain smile. The searching gaze.

_Eliot._

And he barely knew what to do with the sense of relief, of love, of joy, of hope. So he didn’t, he didn’t touch those feelings. They got sorted into a box at the back of his mind. He didn’t want to look at them.

He saw Eliot, and he had this cold, sickening anger. He wanted to _blame_ Eliot. Blame him for all of it.

It wasn’t Eliot’s fault. But it didn’t matter.

Because how dare Eliot come here, and make Quentin think about the Monster, bring back all those awful memories, all those lingering fears to the surface? And how dare he come here and bring back all those memories, hunched over the Mosaic, falling in love and discovering the beauty in all life? How _dare_ he come back, look at Quentin like that, wanting _something?_

There was nothing simple about any of this, and more than anything, Quentin wanted some _fucking_ simplicity. Why couldn’t anything just be easy?

Some days, no part of it felt worth it. _Magic_. Some days, Quentin wished they’d never brought it back. Some days, he wished that he’d never found out it existed in the first place.

Most days, he idly did party-trick spells, making rainbows and fireworks and dragons made of smoke. Trying desperately, desperately, to feel the love he’d felt before. Try desperately to remember what was beautiful about magic.

That was what he’d been doing when the knock came to the door. Making sparkling fireworks in the air as he stretched out on the couch.

The knock on the door.

He thought Julia, maybe. He thought Penny, maybe.

Not Alice, who he’d pushed away. Not Margo, who he suspected still blamed him for Josh. Not Eliot. Never Eliot.

But there he was.

Eliot, who he’d spent months trying to get back. Every step of the way, every choice he made, every second, every second, every second.

It had all been for Eliot.

And now Eliot was back. Looking like _himself_ , with clean, styled hair, and a vest, and rings on his fingers. A tentative look of hope of his face, a tentative look of relief. A searching in his eyes, like he was trying to find Quentin.

Quentin wanted to tell him to look somewhere else. No one was home here.

_Stay numb._

He didn’t want to fall apart. He didn’t want to acknowledge everything that was simmering beneath.

He didn’t want to think about how Eliot’s hands made him want to shrink away, how he was so _broken_ right now, how he couldn’t be what everyone wanted from him if he tried, how people looked at him like he was supposed to _help,_ like he was supposed to be _brave,_ or _kind,_ or _hopeful,_ so that no one else had to be _._ How he was supposed to be the one to yell at a fucking plant, and make himself believe in Fillory again, and find feelings he hadn’t touched in years, because _well, Quentin should be able to do it, Quentin is the only one who can._

He just couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t be that person for everyone anymore.

He thought of how he’d felt, when Eliot had reached out to him, breaking free of the possession—

That tiny, dark feeling of dread. The part of him that had wanted it to be over.

How was he supposed to be the optimist, the idealist, the sidekick everyone wanted from him?

He couldn’t help Julia remember how to be human. He didn’t _know_ how.

He couldn’t be that boy that Alice had loved, that person that had been _the best thing to happen to her_ when she was so broken and grieving and just wanted to be seen _._

And he couldn’t be… Whatever Eliot wanted. Whatever Eliot needed from him.

He’d given too much of himself away. Sometimes it felt like there was nothing left. 

And so here he was. Leaning against the door of his empty apartment. Sitting on the floor staring into nothing, trying to figure out what _thing_ had been the thing to break him, the final nail in the coffin. What moment he was really too far gone, what moment had left him like this.

But it wasn’t just one moment. It was everything.

Quentin curled, resting his forehead against his knees.

Seeing Eliot…

It had been all he wanted for _months._

_Could I maybe have Eliot back?_

And there he was. Finally. After all this time.

And Quentin couldn’t…

\---

Eliot leaned against the wall outside the door.

He was at a loss. He didn’t know what to do.

He wasn’t going to give up on Quentin, like Margo and Alice and maybe even Julia had. He wasn’t going to abandon him like this.

But Quentin… God, he seemed so empty. So broken. Like there was something so deeply wrong that the spark of beautiful hope had left for good.

Eliot refused to believe that.

Things were supposed to get _better_ now. They’d finally, finally gotten through all this. Eliot hadn’t gotten a minute to breathe between rejecting Q after the Mosaic memories flooded them and being possessed by the Monster.

They’d had the Beast, and then they’d had Fillory falling apart, and then they’d had the quest, and then… And then Eliot had been stuck in his own mind, trapped by a Monster.

There hadn’t been enough _time,_ for them to just be… them.

And now there was finally some time, they finally had some space, and Quentin was…

Well, Eliot didn’t know what he was.

Lost, maybe.

Eliot couldn’t stop picturing how alone he was, in that empty, dark place, with no furniture or light. The space that so clearly reflected just how much Quentin wasn’t himself. Nothing sentimental in sight, no comfort objects, no books. No color.

It was, somehow, _worse_ than that hospital and its fucking yellow paintings.

Eliot was at a loss, and he found himself thinking— _what would Quentin do?_

Quentin would never give up on anyone.

Eliot pushed off of the wall, ignoring the pain in his abdomen and his legs and everywhere else. He looked back at the door, wondering. Wondering what Quentin had been put through. Wondering how he’d survived. Wondering if anyone had reached out to him.

Because this kind of thing didn’t just _happen._ It’s not like they completed their quest and Quentin snapped and turned on everyone.

They must’ve missed something, amidst all the chaos. Amidst all the Library bullshit, and the Monster, and Fillory. They _must_ have missed the signs. And while they weren’t looking, Quentin was falling apart, piece by piece by piece, barely hanging on.

Hanging on just enough to save Eliot and then disappear.

It made Eliot’s heart ache, to think about how long Quentin must have been holding it together, to think about how long Quentin had been suffering.

Eliot hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been _there,_ to help Quentin through it all. To see how bad it had gotten, to notice. Because when you live with someone for fifty years, you memorize their signs. You memorize, and you notice, and you help.

For fifty years, Eliot had stood by Quentin through depressive episodes, through breakdowns, through anxiety attacks. And Quentin had done the same for him. For fifty years, they could rely on each other, for everything.

And when Quentin needed him this time, Eliot _wasn’t there._

Eliot knew, intellectually, that he couldn’t blame himself for not being there. He was as trapped and alone as Quentin was, really. He knew that he couldn’t reasonably hate himself for being possessed, for needing saving when Quentin needed help.

But really, when had logic or reason ever stopped Eliot from blaming himself?

He looked at the door.

He remembered the door in the hidden part of his mind, the one he had to find to tell Q he was alive.

He remembered what it had felt like to see Q, the _real_ Q, after promising to be braver.

Well. It wasn’t _exactly_ what he had in mind, but he was going to be braver for Quentin now.

With a little more resolve, and a lot more uncertainty, Eliot walked back towards the stairs.

_I’ll be back,_ he promised silently. _I’m not giving up on you. I’m not abandoning you._

\---

Quentin had returned to the familiarity of the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

_Fireworks._

His fingers were basically on autopilot now. Going through the motions, sending sparks flying, making rainbows, making clouds.

Checking himself into that hospital had been a last resort kind of thing. He was hoping to regain some ground, some stability. After everything, after the Monster, after Eliot, after his dad. He was hoping that some normal, _human_ help might work out.

It hadn’t been a total loss. He’d gotten a little bit lectured about the dangers of going off your meds without talking to a doctor first. They’d put him back on the medication that had gotten him out of the dark places before. It was something, at least. It was more of a safety net than he’d had before.

But his broken brain wasn’t the only issue anymore. This wasn’t him being unable to get out of bed at sixteen. The meds only helped one very specific, very _human_ issue.

The magic was the problem that felt insurmountable.

He remembered the way he’d felt, the first time he’d really done magic. When the cards flew around the room, and he realized it was _him,_ he was telling them what to do. He remembered the rush of joy, of wonder, of amazement.

That hadn’t lasted long.

He remembered learning his discipline, too, that awful, draining day at Brakebills South.

That almost-hope he’d felt. That something-like-a-promise-of-hope.

_Mender of small objects._ He could fix things.

But, as occurred to him later, he could only fix small things. Things that might’ve been fixed anyway, with just some superglue and patience. He _couldn’t_ fix the things that mattered.

He couldn’t fix his broken brain. He couldn’t fix the bridges he’d burned. He couldn’t fix the damage the Monster had done. He couldn’t fix the rift in his family from missing his dad’s funeral. He couldn’t fix his dad.

Mender of small objects. When your problems are vast and looming and endless, it didn’t feel so useful.

He wanted to get better. He wanted everything to be good again, everything to _be_ better. He _wanted_ to feel like himself again. He didn’t know how. How was he ever supposed to work through all this? How was he ever supposed to pull the strings back together?

It felt impossible. It felt too big to even look at.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, immobile, watching the fireworks.

There was another knock at the door.

He stifled a sigh. Maybe Julia, maybe Penny. Maybe Margo this time, to yell at him for not only making her lose Josh, but also for hurting Eliot—maybe Margo to cuss him out, tell him how worthless he already knew he was.

Not Alice. Not Eliot.

But there he was again. Eliot, a few long hours after being told to leave.

He looked uncertain, holding a paper bag. He was breathing heavily, like he’d climbed the stairs too fast.

Quentin felt a familiar twinge of worry, an urge to step forward, an urge to make sure Eliot wasn’t hurt, to tell him he had to be more careful, didn’t he _care_ about healing, I mean _seriously,_ Eliot, we went through all that to save you, you have to be _careful,_ do you _want_ to get hurt again _—_

Quentin squeezed his eyes closed taking a long, thin breath. “What now, Eliot?” he said tiredly.

“May I come in again?” Eliot asked.

“Fine,” Quentin said, opening the door wider. He both desperately wanted Eliot to leave and desperately wanted Eliot to stay.

Eliot walked in, closing the door gently behind him, so it barely made a sound. He walked towards the couch, putting the paper bag on the coffee table. Quentin watched as he hesitated for a moment, ultimately deciding to kneel on the floor rather than sit on the couch.

With care, he pulled boxes out of the bag, arranging them neatly. He folded the paper bag when it was empty, tucking it under one of the boxes.

Quentin didn’t move. He kept still, like he always would when the Monster was doing something. When the Monster was distracted, it was best to not draw attention to yourself.

Eliot shifted, stretch his legs out in front of him. He inhaled sharply at the movement, wincing.

Quentin didn’t step forward. He didn’t go touch Eliot’s shoulder, ask if he was hurt, ask if he needed anything.

Eliot turned his head, looking up at Quentin, with those wide, searching eyes.

“It didn’t look like you had any food,” he said, his voice light and careful. “So I thought I’d bring some.”

“I’m not hungry,” Quentin said, still not moving.

“Well, that can’t possibly be true,” Eliot replied. “Look, I brought sandwiches from that deli you like. And pie from that bakery that _I_ like. And an assortment of fruit.”

Quentin looked down. _Peaches and plums._ Figures.

“I’m not hungry,” he repeated. But he walked over taking a seat on the floor next to Eliot.

Eliot smiled fondly, offering Quentin a peach. “When was the last time you ate?”

Quentin took the peach, rolling it absently in his hands. “That’s none of your business.”

Eliot actually _laughed_. “Well, that’s clearly code for _not very recently.”_

The clear, open sound of Eliot’s laugh…

Quentin dug his thumbnail into the side of the peach, making little crescent moons. The air felt charged between them. As Quentin glanced toward Eliot, seeing the still-hesitant smile, he saw no trace of the Monster.

Somehow, that was worse. Like it never happened.

Quentin coughed, covering the way he was choking up.

“Look, I—” He cut off, sighing sharply. “I told everyone else I needed some time. And space.”

“I know what you told them,” Eliot replied. “But I also know you, Quentin, and you have a tendency to want to be alone when you shouldn’t be.”

Quentin put the peach down, getting to his feet.

“That doesn’t seem like your call,” he said flatly, walking closer to the door.

Eliot got up after him. “Q, I just want to help.”

Quentin scrubbed at his face, frustrated.

“Don’t you _get_ it?” he snapped. “You can’t help. You can’t do anything. I’m here because of _you.”_

Eliot looked stung, stepping back, staring at Quentin in shock.

Quentin felt guilt in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn’t stop. “I was supposed to just stay in Blackspire, I made a _deal._ It wasn’t your decision to make. And then you—you just made it anyway, you tried to kill the Monster after I _told_ you not to. After I _told_ you I’d already decided.”

“I just wanted—” Eliot said, his voice quiet.

“Just wanted to _what,_ exactly, El? Just wanted to save me? Make my decisions for me? You had _no_ right to ask me to stay, and you _really_ had no right to _make_ me stay, not after—” He cut off, laughing. “And then, you got possessed, you got _hurt_ , you nearly got _killed_ because of what you did for _me,_ and what was I supposed to do?”

Eliot closed his lips tightly, his eyes clouding.

“I had to save you because it was _my_ fault that you were in danger, even though I never asked for _any_ of this.” Quentin ran a stressed hand through his hair. “Don’t you get it? I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Silence hung in the air. Eliot furrowed his brow, studying Quentin’s face. Quentin had to look away. It hurt to look at him.

“I don’t regret stopping you from staying in Blackspire,” Eliot said finally. “I’d do it again.”

Quentin scoffed.

“I know. It’s selfish. But at least you’re _here._ I don’t pretend to know what you’ve been through this past year,” Eliot continued. “But I do know that you can come back from it. You’re _here,_ so it’s not hopeless. If you’d stayed in Blackspire with the Monster…”

He cut off, looking down.

Quentin heard the slight break in his voice, saw the tear stuck in Eliot’s eyelashes, and his heart hurt. He wanted to step forward, to take Eliot’s hand, to tell him everything was going to be okay. He didn’t move, his feet stuck to the floor.

Eliot shook his head. “I never would’ve been able to live with myself, if I’d left you there.”

“Well, now we both have to live with it,” Quentin shot back, voice getting hoarse.

Eliot’s lips twitched up in a small smile. “It was worth it, Quentin. _You_ were worth it, all of it.”

Quentin closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t deal with this. “What do you want from me, El?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Quentin glanced over at Eliot, who was furrowing his brow.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally.

“I mean, what are you trying to do here?” Quentin said, his voice rising a little. “What the _hell_ do you want from me?”

Eliot started to open his mouth, seeming like he was going to say something. He just looked pained and turned away.

Quentin sighed heavily, pulling his arms around himself. He didn’t know what he wanted from Eliot, either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself.

_Yes, these new walls are pretty hard to crack_

_And it might take a while until I trust you won't attack_

_Oh, I’d apologize, but it was only self-defense_

_Running away just made sense_

\---

Eliot and Margo sat together on the floor, around the coffee table in their shared place, sharing a truly obscene amount of Chinese food they’d ordered.

“I could’ve just told him,” Eliot said, poking absently with his chopsticks. “I could’ve just told him I loved him, but I got too scared again.”

“You know, I’d tell you that you nutsacked out, but I actually get it,” Margo replied. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you were a total chickenshit last time you didn’t say it, but this time… I get it. Quentin isn’t easy to talk to right now.”

Eliot frowned, looking down. “He asked me what I wanted from him, like he really believed there was some other reason I was there.”

“I told you. Alice told you. Julia told you.” Margo shook her head. “Q’s got to handle his shit for a while.”

Eliot shook his head. “I’m going back there tomorrow.”

Margo glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “You serious? You don’t wanna give him some time to cool off?”

“It’s Q, Bambi,” Eliot said simply.

She stifled a sigh. “I know.”

Eliot didn’t particularly want to discuss this. He wasn’t sure she _did_ know.

He looked across the table. “We may have been a little ambitious in our ordering.”

Margo shrugged. “Leftovers.”

Eliot put up a finger. “Or guests.”

She waved a hand apathetically. “Go ahead.”

He called Julia and Penny.

It didn’t take long for Penny to travel them both into the room.

Eliot frowned, seeing Penny holding a large bag of takeout. “You know, it kind of defeats the purpose if you bring _more_ food,” Eliot said.

Penny lifted it slightly. “Okay, but this is actually _from_ China.”

“Fine, fine,” Eliot replied with a wave of his hand. “Set it down anywhere.”

Julia walked over briskly, hugging Eliot gently, like she wanted to be extra-careful of his wounds.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said, smiling. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“And I you,” Eliot replied. He squeezed her shoulder gently. “We have so much in common now, the two of us.”

Julia let out a short chuckle. “I think you’ve got me beat. I was possessed for like, a day. And then unconscious for like two.”

“I just need to take my time with everything. I’m sure you understand,” Eliot said.

Julia raised an eyebrow. “You seem like you’re in a good mood.”

“It’s insufferable, really,” Margo called over from the floor. “He’s been goddamn chipper since he woke up. Fucking annoying.”

Eliot glanced back at her before offering Julia a slight smile. “Just happy to be alive, I guess,” he said, his voice quieter.

A flicker of understanding passed through Julia’s eyes. “Glad to hear it,” she replied. 

“Heard you saw Coldwater,” Penny said, his voice surprisingly soft. “How is he?”

Eliot stifled a sigh. “Oh, you know. He’s been better.”

He couldn’t stop the tiny bit of resentment, that little piece of him that blamed everyone else for not reaching out to Quentin more. For not protecting him more, and for letting him run away.

Penny shook his head. “The Monster really did a number on him.”

Eliot glanced down at his own hands, flexing them to remind himself that they were his again. They belonged to him again. But on some level, he couldn’t stop thinking about how these were the hands responsible for whatever happened to Quentin. And he could _feel_ the Monster’s memories, somewhere hidden in his mind.  

“He just needs some time,” Eliot said, realizing right after the words came out that it’s what everyone else has been saying. The reason they’ve been using for not reaching out to him.

“We all do,” Margo said, a hint of bitterness in her voice.

Eliot turned to her sharply. “Bambi…” he said, some warning in his tone.

She put her hands up. “I’m just saying. It sucks what Coldwater went through, but it’s not like the rest of us were having a fucking spa day.”

“You didn’t see it,” Penny said. “The Monster _liked_ him. Dragged him everywhere. It was fucking creepy.”

Eliot glanced towards him, furrowing his brow. It was the first he’d heard of _that_ aspect of it.

Julia seemed to sense his reaction, stepping forward and resting a hand lightly on Eliot’s arm. She led him back to the coffee table, all of them sitting on the floor around it.

“How’ve you been healing?” she asked. “Still using the cane?”

He offered a brief grateful smile. “Everything is going how it should.”

“He _hasn’t_ been using the cane,” Margo interjected. “Even though he’s _supposed_ to be using it for another fucking week.”

Julia shot him a disapproving look.

Eliot cleared his throat, looking down. “So, how about you? How’s being human?”

Julia let out a clear laugh. “Strange. Like I have to relearn everything.” She smiled brightly. “I know I made the right call, though. I wasn’t ready to let go of humanity.”

“I hear you’re getting your magic back?”

“Barely,” she said. She flicked her fingers out, sending some sparks. “Just party tricks for now.”

“It’s a start,” Eliot replied.

“Yeah,” she said, looking a little sheepishly proud.

It was nice, taking some time to eat take out and catch up. Like they were actual grad students.

It wasn’t like everything was back to normal, but there some semblance of calm. Some amount of peace that they’d finally acquired. They’d never really gotten a chance to become friends, get to know each other. They’d been thrown together by virtue of being involved in the same convoluted nonsense.

So much had happened, it barely felt like they needed to get to know each other. They’d all risked their lives together more times than they ever should’ve had to.

They stayed like that for a while, talking and smiling and _laughing,_ until the sky was dark and the food was cold.

Penny and Julia started to say their goodbyes, saying that they should do this again, _soon, preferably, maybe Alice and Kady can come, too—_

Before they left, Eliot managed to get a chance to pull Penny aside.

“Penny,” Eliot said quietly. “I need your help. Could you come back tomorrow?”

\---

Penny looked hesitant. “Are you sure you wanna do this?”

Eliot steeled himself, clenching his jaw. “No,” he answered honestly. “But I think I need to.”

“You’re not going to be able to take it back. You can’t unsee shit.”

Eliot nodded. “I understand. But I have to know. If Q had to live through it, I…”

Penny sighed. “I get it.”

“So how do we—”

“Just close your eyes and concentrate,” Penny said, reaching for Eliot’s hand.

In his memories, Eliot could sense the Monster’s feelings. His anger, his hate, his want. His desire for attention, affection, a friend. How he fixated on Quentin after one card trick and wouldn’t let him go.

Accessing the Monster’s memories, the things that had happened out in the world while Eliot was trapped, it wasn’t that complicated. The hard part was watching it.

Quentin as Brian, on his feet, blood splattered across his cheek. “ _I’m not your pal. Or your playmate. And I’m not scared of you anymore. So why don’t you just fucking kill me?”_

Eliot choked back a broken gasp as he watched the Monster, wearing _his_ face, flick his fingers and break Quentin’s arm without blinking an eye. Quentin, crying out in pain on the ground… The Monster leaning down and healing his arm…

Quentin, breathing heavily and pulling his arm to his chest, looking _terrified._

Eliot started to step forward, reaching out.

“It’s already happened,” Penny said, not unkindly. “You can’t do anything about it now.”

Eliot had almost forgotten he was there. He just nodded numbly. God, it was _already_ so awful, and they’d barely scratched the surface.

The Monster smiled down at Quentin, and Eliot felt nauseous.

It was _his_ face. It wasn’t his smile.

The Monster’s slow, inhuman way of moving, his stilted, sing-song words, the way he stared…

Eliot had understood that his body had been possessed, that a monster had been using it for months. It was another thing to actually see it. To see _himself,_ but not himself. _Inhuman_ , and cruel, and vindictive. He felt used, and he felt guilty.

The scene shifted, to Kady’s flat. Eliot braced himself.

Quentin wrestling a bottle of pills away from the Monster, spilling them across the floor. The Monster flippantly tossed Quentin across the room, a lamp crashing to the ground. Eliot started forward again before Penny grabbed his arm.

“ _Those pills can kill you_ ,” Quentin said, his voice rising.

 _“I’ll take a new body,”_ the Monster mumbled. _“I’m bored.”_

Quentin pushed himself back to his feet _. “You kill Eliot, and you can forget about us helping you.”_

The Monster, menacingly getting to his feet and walking over to Quentin _—“Eliot, Eliot, Eliot. Why do you care about him so much?”_ Eliot could sense the Monster’s frustration, his childish jealousy.

Quentin kept his gaze steady, didn’t wince or flinch or shrink. _“Because I do. You kill him, and we are done,_ ” he said, ferocity in his tone. _“I swear to God, I am serious. I will abandon you, and I will die trying to burn you to the ground.”_

Eliot swallowed, feeling both unable to watch and unable to turn away. Quentin really meant it. He would’ve died. Eliot wanted to tell him that it wasn’t worth it, that it wasn’t worth his _life._

 _“That’s cute.”_ The Monster, inches from Quentin’s face. _“But I’m strong. And you’re weak.”_

The Monster put his hands— _Eliot’s_ hands—on Quentin’s neck, looming and threatening.

 _“Break my bones. Strangle me.”_ Quentin didn’t falter, even as his voice became weaker as the Monster tightened his grip. _“I’m too tired to care anymore.”_

Eliot’s heart broke. _Quentin._

“ _Q,”_ Julia’s voice, full of warning.

_“You hurt him, you take one more pill, and you can build your body on your own.”_

Eliot could hardly breathe at the beat of silence.

The Monster let go, being the first to break eye contact. _“Fine. I’ll take better care of the meatsuit. But you don’t have to be such a baby about it.”_

Eliot saw the anger, the frustration, the fury on Quentin’s face. He’d been told that Quentin had been doing nothing but trying to save him. He’d been told how Quentin had lost sleep, how he wouldn’t talk to anyone, how he’d run himself ragged.

More memories flashed by.

Of the Monster hurting Quentin, or dragging Quentin along as he killed people. Quentin, covered in blood, chain smoking, hands shaking. Quentin stepping in front of the Monster with wide eyes and placating hands, trying to talk him out of hurting someone.

The Monster telling Quentin that Eliot was dead.

And then there were the smaller moments. Quentin tensing as the Monster touched his neck. Leaning away, clenching his jaw. The Monster casually stroking Quentin’s hair, pressing a hand to his chest, putting an arm around him.

Quentin looking more numb and empty and distant with each moment. Quentin, avoiding eye contact and going perfectly still.

“We can leave whenever you want,” Penny said, his voice quiet.

Eliot let out a shaky breath. “Now. Please. I can’t watch this anymore.”

Then they were back in the real world, and Eliot felt like curling in on himself.

They weren’t _his_ memories. Not exactly. But there was a part of him that remembered them. They’d been there since he’d woken up—in a foggy corner of his mind, covered up, because they didn’t belong to him.

But he remembered them. If he focused—which _God, he really didn’t want to—_ he could feel his hands, the Monster’s hands, wrapped around Quentin’s neck, tightening.

Eliot pressed his palms together, trying to steady himself.

“Are you gonna be okay, man?” Penny asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Eliot replied, his voice surprisingly even.

He was shaken by the memories, but Quentin had _lived_ them.

\---

It wasn’t the nightmares that kept Quentin from sleeping. The nightmares were horrific, and nauseating, but Quentin could just wake with a start into a quieter world.

It was the mundane, uneventful dreams that unsettled him. The dreams of being Brian, getting ice cream with the Monster, trying to get through the day as smoothly as possible when you’re being dragged around by what is essentially a homicidal child. Buying piles of junk food at the bodega for the Monster. Showing the Monster card tricks.

Those dreams, the dreams where nothing quite happens, but the threat looms…

They stayed with Quentin when he woke up. Because the threat always felt like it was there, just in the corner of his eye, waiting.

He was having one of these dreams when a knock on the door woke him up.

Quentin opened the door. Eliot again.

 _Not the Monster,_ he had to tell himself.

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “Is this gonna be, like, a daily thing?”

Eliot’s lips twitched in the slightest smile. “I’m hoping,” he replied.

Quentin stepped aside, letting Eliot in.

Eliot seemed uncharacteristically fidgety, glancing around the room and moving like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing with his hands.

Quentin, on the other hand, was very still. It occurred to him how it seemed like they’d switched demeanors. Eliot had always seemed so gathered and steady.

“Quentin, I—” Eliot started. He took a short breath, looking at the floor.

Quentin didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry. About everything you went through.”

Eliot looked up at him quickly, briefly, pain and guilt in his gaze.

Quentin furrowed his brow, apprehensive. He didn’t know how to respond.

Eliot cleared his throat. “I have, um. Well, I have access to the Monster’s memories. Considering it was, you know, my body.”

_Oh._

A number of things went through Quentin’s mind.

He wanted to put a hand on Eliot’s shoulder, tell him that it wasn’t him, that he couldn’t blame himself. That he should never feel guilty for what had happened to them both. He wanted to reassure him, hug him, tell him he loved him.

He also, far less kindly, thought of the possibility of using this as a reason to push Eliot away. Justify why he didn’t want to see him. Tell Eliot that it hurt just to look at him, and if he really cared, he’d leave Quentin alone.

Quentin didn’t have it in him to do either. He was just tired. He didn’t want to hurt Eliot, but he couldn’t bring himself to comfort him either.

Eliot looked down, pressing his palms together and flexing his fingers in what seemed like a nervous gesture. He glanced back up at Quentin, his gaze resting briefly on Quentin’s neck.

And Quentin immediately knew which memory he was thinking of.

“It never felt like you, you know,” Quentin murmured, looking at the ground. He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “Even when it looked like you, it never _felt_ like you.”

_Eliot, Eliot, Eliot. Why do you care about him so much?_

“You don’t have to do that,” Eliot replied with a short laugh. “You don’t have to, you know, reassure me. Try and make me feel better. That’s not on you.”

_Because I do. You kill him, and we are done._

_All_ Quentin had wanted to do was protect Eliot. The second he learned that Eliot was still alive, the second he found out that Eliot _could_ be saved…

And now, here Eliot was. Alive and safe and _here._ It had been all Quentin wanted for months.

He remembered how he’d felt, confronting the Monster. Like his skin was on fire. It’s not that he wasn’t afraid—he was _terrified,_ but it wasn’t important. His own fear didn’t matter. Eliot was alive. He’d felt a spark, a drive again. Giving up was no longer on the table.

That small, dark part of him that had been relieved at Eliot’s death didn’t feel so significant in that moment. Quentin hated that he’d felt that, hated that he’d thought that, but he knew it wasn’t really him. It was the part of him that wanted to give up. The part of him that was relieved to lose one of the things he had to live for. The rest of Quentin had been ready to go to the ends of the earth to save Eliot, ready to die for him.

“You were so brave, Q,” Eliot said, still looking at his hands.

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut.

_Break my bones. Strangle me. I’m too tired to care._

Brave. Sure.

That was one way to put it.

It was easier to be brave when you had no consideration for your own safety.

Quentin didn’t like the idea that Eliot remembered. He didn’t like the idea that all those moments with the Monster existed in Eliot’s mind, too. He didn’t like the idea that Eliot had been _there_ in those moments.

Something in him wanted to shield Eliot from those memories, for both of their sakes.

Eliot’s demeanor shifted, covering the pain in a way that Quentin was familiar with.

He’d brought Mexican food this time— _wasn’t sure what you’d wanna eat, Q, so I just went with what I was craving—_ plus two fortune cookies from food that he and Margo had ordered the night before— _you should really come next time, Q, we had way too much food in the end._

It was almost comfortable. Almost.

\---

Eliot took a breath before knocking. He’d been coming over every day, and it didn’t seem like it was going to get easier, the nervousness. Each time, he had this lurking fear that this would be the time that Quentin wasn’t there anymore. This would be the time that Quentin had run away, or gotten hurt, or hurt himself.

So each moment that it took before the door opened, Eliot was shuffling through various possible scenarios, in which he’d lose Quentin again.

The door opened.

“Eliot,” Quentin greeted flatly, rubbing a hand against his eye.

He just stepped aside, letting Eliot in.

Familiar relief washed over Eliot.

Quentin was still here, and he was still letting Eliot inside.

“What, no food this time?” Quentin said, gesturing to Eliot’s lack of paper bag.

Eliot took a breath. “Well, I was thinking we might go somewhere to eat instead. You know, outside. You remember outside?”

“No.” Quentin answered without hesitation.

“You don’t remember? I assure you, it’s generally tolerable. Sunshine and fresh air, et cetera, et cetera.” Eliot gestured nonchalantly. “Anyway, I’ve heard there are many places outside that have food of some sort. It sounded interesting, in any case.”

“Feel free,” Quentin replied dryly. “I’m staying here.”

As if to make a point, he slunk back over to the couch and stretched out on it.

Eliot stifled a sigh. “I know that you know what you’re doing here. You’re trying to shut everything out.”

Quentin glanced over at him, looking half-annoyed, half-pained.

He didn’t say anything. He just took a deep breath and went through the motions of a spell to cause small fireworks to fly up above him.

“Believe me, I understand the impulse,” Eliot went on. “But you know it won’t help.”

Once the fireworks had faded, Quentin went through another spell, creating a rainbow over his fingers.

“Please, just come outside with me. Ten minutes.” Eliot started to take a step towards Quentin. “It won’t solve everything, but you might start to feel better. It’s worth a try. Isn’t it?”

Quentin sighed, pulling himself back to his feet slowly. “What’s the point?” he said.

“The _point?”_ Eliot echoed. “The _point_ is that we’ve _finally_ gotten through the bullshit that happened this year. We’re still here. Shouldn’t we try to enjoy it? Now that we have some peace?”

“What, until the next crisis?” Quentin replied, his voice getting a little heated. “Nothing ever actually changes. Nothing ever gets better. We just face another problem and fuck it up over and over and _over_ again.”

Eliot furrowed his brow. “It can get better, Q. It _will.”_

Quentin let out a short laugh. “Are you hearing yourself? Haven’t you noticed that things have _exclusively_ gone downhill? _Especially_ when we try to fix things. All the fucking quests, they always go wrong, and things are worse than before.”

“That’s not true,” Eliot replied. “I seem to recall one quest going exceptionally well.”

Quentin’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re not—you’re not _seriously_ going to bring _that_ up.”

He sounded _angry._

Eliot held his ground. “Beauty of all life, Q.”

“Well, it couldn’t have meant that much to you,” Quentin said, bitterness in his tone. He turned away.

“It meant as much to me as it did to you,” Eliot said. He clenched his jaw, realizing how hard his heart was beating. He was getting afraid again. He didn’t want to say the words. He hadn’t _planned_ on saying them. Certainly not today.

He hadn’t wanted to say the words before, either, but that was different. He was afraid of how he could fuck up what he and Quentin had. He was afraid of how they might fall apart, and how losing Quentin would be worse than never really having him to begin with. He was afraid of being Quentin’s second choice.

This time, he didn’t want to say the words because he was afraid of what Quentin might say back, in the interest of pushing Eliot away. Even if he didn’t mean it, Quentin could say something that would _hurt._

“Bullshit. Fucking hell, Eliot,” Quentin said, scoffing. He leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, bracing himself with both hands.

He didn’t believe him, Eliot realized. He didn’t believe that their life meant _anything_ to Eliot.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Quentin continued, voice lowering.

Eliot furrowed his brow, trying to find the words. “For the same reason you didn’t give up on me.”

Quentin shot him a sharp look. “I doubt that.”

Eliot flexed his hands, brushed his fingers against each other nervously. “Q, I love you,” he said simply. His voice came out scratchy, strained.

Quentin stilled, tensing. There was a beat of silence. “Don’t,” he said softly.

“When I was trapped in my mind, you know what got me out? What finally helped me get through to tell you I was alive?” Eliot took a slow step forward.

Quentin just barely shifted, so his face was angled further away from Eliot.

“The door to get through was hidden in a memory I didn’t want to think about. A memory I’d hidden from myself.”

He leaned against the counter, keeping his distance as best he could. He put one hand flat against its surface, and Quentin shrank away a little.

Eliot kept going, ignoring the heartache. Ignoring how much he wanted to touch Quentin, to hold him. “It was the day we remembered the Mosaic. The day you asked if we could give it a shot, and I shut you down. That was the memory I was avoiding, the one I didn’t want to think about, because that, Quentin, _that_ is my biggest regret.”

“Just stop,” Quentin said hoarsely. He put a hand up slightly. “Don’t—don’t do this. Please.”

Eliot sighed, gazing searchingly, longingly. “I never should have pushed you away like that.”

“Why are you saying this?” Quentin replied. He shot Eliot the barest of glances through his eyelashes, and Eliot caught the faint shimmer of a tear.

“Because it’s the truth,” Eliot replied. “And you deserve the truth.”

“No. _No,_ ” Quentin said emphatically. “You said—you _said_ not when we have a choice. You can’t—God, El, you can’t just tell me you _didn’t mean it_.”

Somehow, Eliot hadn’t thought of a reaction like this. His hands shook a little. Quentin sounded so _hurt._ Like the rejection had just happened, like it was still fresh. Eliot hated himself more than ever in that moment. He had no idea.

“I’m so sorry, Q,” Eliot said, voice breaking. “I was afraid. Afraid of ruining what we had. Afraid of losing you. Afraid of actually being happy for once. So I ran away instead. I should’ve been braver, Q. I’m sorry.”

“You just—fuck, El. You let me—you let me believe that it didn’t _matter_ to you. That _I_ didn’t—that I didn’t matter to you.” With each word, Quentin’s voice got softer, more broken.

This was _so much worse_ than Quentin, in his angry, cold state, using Eliot’s feelings against him. This was so much worse than Quentin trying to hurt him. It was so much worse than any harsh, empty words Quentin could throw at him.

He didn’t know. How had he not known? How had he not known how much it had hurt Quentin, how much pain he’d been hiding?

He thought of the resentment he’d felt toward Julia, towards Margo, towards Alice, all for not realizing how Quentin had been falling to pieces.

He was such a hypocrite.

He saw a tear drip from Quentin’s eyelashes to the counter, watched his hunched shoulders shake slightly.

Eliot turned away, feeling sharp pain in his chest, his heart hurting. He couldn’t bear to see it, see the hurt _he’d_ cause. The hurt he’d caused because he was selfish and cowardly and callous.

“I’m so sorry, Quentin,” he said, and the words felt hollow and inadequate. “I’d do anything to take it back. I wish—god, Q, I wish I could make it up to you. You deserved so much better than how I treated you.”

“Fifty _years,_ El. And you let me feel stupid for—for believing. For believing in _us.”_

Eliot looked down. There was nothing he could say. No words he could string together that would make this better.

Some part of Eliot had this hope, this image, that he could just say that he’d been wrong, that he did love Quentin, that he _always_ loved Quentin, and then they would just fall in each other’s arms. He had this vision, where he told Q, and Quentin kissed him, and everything was okay.

But there are consequences when you hurt someone. Eliot knew that. He couldn’t expect to just move past what he said. What he did.

“But you have to know that’s not me, and that’s definitely not you. Not when we have a choice.”

Eliot closed his eyes tightly. Quentin remembered the _words._

“ _That’s_ what you told me.”

“I know,” Eliot said quietly.

“God _damnit,_ Eliot.”

“I know.”

Quentin let out a long, shaky sigh. “I need you to go,” he said quietly.

Eliot hesitated. He wanted to stay. “I’ll be back again tomorrow.”

“Whatever.”

Quentin didn’t move, didn’t walk Eliot to the door, didn’t look up.

Eliot left as quietly as he could. He pressed a hand hard against the door after closing it behind him, trying to steady himself.

What good was he to Quentin, to anyone? He only made things worse, no matter how hard he tried. So much for being brave.  

\---

Quentin hunched over, his head in his arms.

He was trying to rewrite what he thought he’d known for over a year.

He thought of that moment—that moment in the throne room, holding a note with his handwriting, from a version of him he would never be.

The memories didn’t hit all at once. Not quite.

It was a little flicker at first, déjà vu, nothing quite solid enough to understand. A feeling, an ache…

Then it was one memory. Just the one, at first. A small one, a fleeting moment—

_“Do you think we’ll ever solve it?” Eliot said with a sigh, lying down on yet another pattern that failed to depict the beauty of all life. There were bits of silver in his hair, laughter lines his face._

_Quentin, older Quentin, some version of him that had aged and mellowed and loved, smiled fondly at Eliot. “Does it matter?”_

_Eliot glanced up, looking a little apprehensive. “Of course it matters,” he said._

_There was some meaning that Quentin wasn’t getting—some question that Eliot was asking._

_In the memory, Quentin tilted his head, studying Eliot’s face. He’d been answering the question of whether it would be okay if they never made it back to Earth, if they lived out their days in Fillory. It was the question they’d been asking since that first week, when they realized how long it could take._

_It occurred to him that Eliot was asking what would happen to them if they_ didn’t _live out their days there. If they solved the puzzle and ended up back in their old lives._

_Quentin shifted forward, putting a hand over Eliot’s. Eliot turned his hand, interlacing their fingers._

_“Either way, we’ll be together,” Quentin promised. He squeezed Eliot’s hand, trying to convey all the meaning in the gesture._

Just a simple moment, a simple memory—

A memory of a version of Quentin that didn’t exist—

A memory of a time that never happened—

And the floodgates opened. Images of their little cottage, of Arielle, of Ted, of fighting and laughing and falling in love. An entire lifetime, an entire existence. It felt so _real,_ so tangible. Images of peaches and plums and tiles and quilts.

Images of Eliot, all the way until the end.

 _How do we remember that?_ Quentin had asked.

In an instant, Eliot had gone from being Quentin’s friend and completely unavailable crush to his life partner, his soul mate, the love of his life.

In an instant, for the first time, it felt like after all Quentin’s one-sided pining for the boy that had first greeted him at Brakebills, he might really have a chance.

_Who gets that kind of proof of concept?_

But Eliot hadn’t seen it that way. That life, those memories, those feelings—they didn’t mean the same things to him.

On some level, Quentin had been unsurprised. Despite his theatrics, Eliot was always the more rational and level-headed of the two of them. He wasn’t emotional in the way that Quentin was. If he said that it wasn’t really them, that they couldn’t be together in this life because they had a _choice_ here, then how could Quentin argue?

He’d just been injected with a half century of emotions. He wasn’t thinking clearly.

And Quentin had tried _so hard_ to move past it. To see it the way Eliot did, through a more detached lens. Because, really, Eliot was right, wasn’t he? Just because they worked there, in that fairytale, doesn’t mean they would here. It was just a fantasy. Eliot knew better. Quentin was being overly-optimistic again, too sentimental, throwing himself into something he didn’t understand. Naïve.

So Quentin pushed it away, gave up on it. Tried to understand it the way Eliot did, tried to understand it as having not _really_ been him. Because the memories weren’t _real,_ no matter how true they felt _._ They hadn’t lived it.

And now…

After all that—

Eliot had _lied._

What was he supposed to feel here?

Relief, because he hadn’t been deluding himself? Hope, because Eliot felt the same way? Anger, because of the way Eliot had handled it? Fear, regret, because now that _Eliot_ was ready, Quentin wasn’t anymore? Grief, because they could never get that moment back?

All of the above.

There was a not insignificant part of him that wanted to hurt Eliot like he’d been hurt. That wanted to throw Eliot’s words back at him, reject him and let him live with the pain of it.

There was a not insignificant part of him that wanted to wholeheartedly forgive Eliot, because of course, Quentin understood being afraid. He _understood_ how hard it was for Eliot to face his own feelings. That part of him wanted to ask Eliot again, still wanted to give it another shot.

But he couldn’t do anything.

It didn’t matter what he wanted. He was still barely hanging on.

This was just something else to add to the pile of complicated, messy, overwhelming things that Quentin couldn’t handle.

The part that hurt Quentin the most, the part he found excruciating, was how different things could have been, if Eliot had been honest from the start. If Eliot hadn’t let him go on believing that the idea of them was an inaccessible dream.

He might never have offered to be the jailer at Blackspire. They might have found another way. Eliot might never had been possessed. Quentin never would have wrecked he and Alice’s reconciliation by trying to force their relationship back.

What a _world_ of hurt could have been avoided.

He knew he wasn’t being fair. It wasn’t fair to blame any of that on Eliot. It wasn’t fair to imagine that things could have been better, if only, if only. They could never really know how things might have turned out, and Quentin knew that trying to place the blame on Eliot wasn’t fair.

But none of this was fair. None of it was _ever_ fair.

And Quentin hated Eliot for all of it. And he hated Eliot because he was still in love with him, but he’d long since abandoned the dream that they could be together.

And now this.

What was he supposed to do with it?

\---

Eliot wanted to talk to Margo but he also desperately, desperately didn’t. He barely wanted to say any words that would confirm what just happened. He didn’t want to speak it into existence, acknowledge what he’d done and how much it had hurt.

It’s not that he didn’t know that Quentin was hurt at all.

It was that, deep down, Eliot had believed what he’d said. He’d never been blind to Quentin’s feelings—the boy was exactly zero percent subtle with his crushes. But Eliot was accustomed to having people idolize him, having people stare longingly at him, but never really _seeing_ him. He was unfazed by being admired by the people putting him on a pedestal.

Eliot knew how this went. It was always the same. People loved him, of course they did. He designed it that way. They found him intriguing, and mysterious, and they had dreams of him being Oscar Wilde, waxing poetic.  Wide-eyed boys and misguided girls, always the same. It was nice while it lasted—cute, really, sweet—but it wouldn’t last. They would get bored, or realize Eliot was never going to be as nice as they’d envisioned. They’d move on quietly, and someone else would take their place.

And if Eliot was being honest, it might’ve killed him to have that happen with Quentin. To have the same fleeting admiration he was used to, and to watch Quentin get tired of it and move on, never expecting it to hurt Eliot because Eliot, of course, didn’t _get_ hurt.

Eliot thought that Quentin would get over it, because he thought that Quentin, like everyone, loved the façade. He thought that Quentin, in the end, would always choose Alice. He thought that what they’d had in that other life was just an accident, a twist of fate. A beautiful one, but a fluke nonetheless.

Of course Quentin would be sad, and hurt, but he’d get over it because there wasn’t a real chance that he’d want Eliot _here._ Eliot knew what drew people to him—he was mysterious, and theatrical, and charismatic, and flirtatious. But he was also difficult and messy and not as kind as he could be, and he _hated_ himself, and no one actually wanted to deal with all of that.

Why should Quentin be any different?

People loved Eliot. They did not fall in love with him.

 _It was sort of beautiful,_ Quentin had said.

 _It really was,_ Eliot had replied. It had been a little overwhelming, imagining a world where Eliot could have a life like that. Where he was capable of it.

And why ruin that? Why ruin those memories by trying to recreate them here, only to find that it was never truly in the cards for him? Why kid himself with the fantasy? It was better to just leave those memories as they were. Beautiful, unreal.

_I know this sounds dumb, but… us, we—_

Eliot couldn’t acknowledge the idea that they _worked_ together. He couldn’t let it be real, tangible. It was better for it to stay a dream. Then, Eliot wouldn’t have to face how wholly inadequate he was, how completely incapable of that kind of lasting human connection.

He knew it would hurt Quentin. He knew it was cruel to dismiss Quentin’s feelings the way he did. Quentin was taking a chance, putting his heart on the line the way he always, _always_ did, and Eliot rejected it. Quentin was willing to risk it, and Eliot wasn’t, and Eliot knew that it was hurtful.

But he never would’ve imagined it would hurt Quentin this much. That the hurt would last like this.

And what was Eliot supposed to do now? It was too late. They’d had a moment, they’d had a chance, and Eliot had destroyed it. How could he ever ask Quentin to forgive him, knowing now how deeply he’d hurt him?

And how, _how_ did Eliot never notice?

He didn’t see it. He didn’t see how much Q felt for him. How much their life had meant to him.

And it was too late to take that back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was an exercise I like to call "Can I Follow Through On That Happy Ending Tag?"  
> You'll have to let me know.

_But here I am with arms unfolding_

_I guess it isn't quite the end_

_Old partner in crime, I'm going to try_

_To fall in love with you again_

\---

Eliot was later than usual.

Quentin glanced towards the door. Time had felt meaningless for a while. He hadn’t been paying attention to when he managed to fall asleep or force himself to eat. The curtains were always drawn. He wasn’t keeping track of it.

Somehow, he’d started noticing what time Eliot had been coming over each day.

He was late today.

Quentin found himself waiting. It was a barely familiar feeling, having this kind of expectation.

He wondered why Eliot wasn’t here. Was he actually running late? Did he have something else to do? Was he not coming today?

Quentin told himself he didn’t care.

Then—

_What if something happened to him?_

Quentin’s pulse sped up.

He slid down from the couch, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Facing the door. Staring at it, really.

Nothing had happened to Eliot. It couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. There was such a long string of awful, horrifying things that had happened. Good things _had_ to start happening at some point. Didn’t they? Weren’t they long overdue for it?

So no, nothing could have happened to Eliot. He was fine.

He was just running late.

Or he decided not to come.

Maybe he’d finally given up, decided to give Quentin some space, like everyone else.

Maybe Quentin had finally managed to push him away.

He should be relieved by that. Right?

It would be easier if everyone would just give up on Quentin. Let him fade. He’d managed to push Alice away. Margo. Even Julia. He’d said enough harsh, pointed words. He’d rejected all their attempts to reach out. He stopped answering their calls.

And after a little bit of time, they just stopped calling. And it had been a relief.

No one had expectations for him anymore.

Julia stopped expecting him to help her with learning how to be human again. Margo stopped expecting him to help her with Eliot at the hospital or talk to her about Josh. Alice stopped expecting him to be that boy she’d gotten to briefly see again at Brakebills South, the boy who loved her, excitedly, passionately.

He got to just be himself. Whoever that was. Alone.

He didn’t have to carry the emotional weight for anyone anymore. It was over.

It was easier.

So Eliot giving up on him, finally?

It should be a relief.

Eliot wouldn’t be coming back, bringing him food, trying to coax him outside. Eliot wouldn’t be coming back with any more apologies or confessions.

Quentin could get back to ignoring the passage of time, making fireworks and rainbows and clouds until he felt something again.

He flicked his fingers out, making fireworks.

Really, now that Eliot was awake and moving forward, Quentin was done. Wasn’t he? He’d done enough for everyone. He had spent months trying to save Eliot. Eliot waking up was the last thing left, the last bit of proof that they’d finally won for once in their lives.

Quentin could be done. He could give up. Couldn’t he?

_Aren’t you just so tired? Don’t you just want to let go? Isn’t it time? Your friends don’t need you anymore, you’ve made sure of that. It’s okay now, to give up._

That voice, that part of Quentin that had been relieved when the Monster said Eliot was dead—

But _no_. Quentin tried to shut it out.

The fact of the matter was that there was always a part of Quentin that wanted to give up. But the overwhelming majority of him didn’t. Which was why he was still here, making fireworks, desperate to fall in love with magic again. Why he was still _trying_ to find the hope he’d lost.

More fireworks sparkled in the air in front of him.

But if Eliot was finally giving up on him…

Well, there was one more thing that had been tying Quentin to his life, gone. Another string snapped. How much did Quentin even have left?

Fireworks and rainbows could only do so much to remind Quentin of the beauty of magic. Magic has destroyed so much. How could Quentin still see it as beautiful?

He’d lost his life. He’d lost his safety. He’d lost his father. He’d lost himself.

He’d lost his hope, his passion, his idealism, all to magic.

Party tricks. Magic was nothing but a bunch of party tricks, anything beyond that was too dangerous to touch.

Where could he find the beauty in it?

Quentin’s mind wandered, thinking of magic, thinking of life, thinking of beauty.

_The beauty of all life._

It hadn’t been magic. It had been… life. Magic didn’t solve the Mosaic, the most human kind of love and connection and happiness and pain did. The beauty of all life was life itself, with every complicated and messy part rolled in to all the joy.

It was growing old with someone, falling in love, fighting, hurting, crying, sharing.

Quentin kept staring at the door through the rainbows and fireworks.

Eliot was late.

He was in love with Eliot, pure and simple. He always would be. You don’t get over someone after having those sorts of memories with them. After getting to know them, on the deepest level. You don’t stop caring about someone after they hurt you, after they break your heart.

_I love you, Q._

The way Eliot had said it, his voice strained, his words breaking, his eyes searching. Like it was the hardest and truest thing he could say. Like the weight of the words contained every unreal memory from that life they never lived.

Quentin hadn’t known. He hardly believed it.

He closed his eyes.

How was he supposed to believe it?

Eliot giving up on him, letting him fade, that was far more believable.

Quentin stared at the door.

Nothing had happened to Eliot.

He just wasn’t coming.

Quentin sighed, lying down on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t make any more fireworks or rainbows, just a few passing clouds.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he heard a knock at the door.

His pulse quickening, getting to his feet, he dared to be a little optimistic.

He opened the door.

Margo pushed past him, storming into his apartment, her hair almost hitting him in the face.

“No, sure, come right in,” Quentin muttered, closing the door, swallowing the lump in his throat.

She spun around, crossing her arms and fixing him with a withering glare. “Alright, Coldwater. _Enough_. We’re doing this now.”

He stifled a sigh. _Right_. The fight that had been bubbling under the surface ever since, in the hospital, her look of disbelief— _you’re really not staying?_ “Can we not, though?”

“I’ve given you your fucking space,” she said. “But I am done. I don’t know what you fucking said to Eliot—”

“Wait, hang on—”

“But he was sulking, moping, _upset_. And you know what? I’m fucking tired of this.” She took a step towards him, hands on her hips now. “You don’t get a free pass to be an asshole.”

Quentin closed his eyes briefly. _Eliot, upset._ “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know that I’m sick of your shit,” Margo said. “You know Eliot hasn’t done a single thing except worry about you since he woke up? Q, this is getting ridiculous.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, avoiding her gaze. “I didn’t ask him to do any of this. In fact, I’ve told him not to.”

Margo let out a short laugh, full of disbelief. “What did you fucking expect? It’s _Eliot_. Coldwater, you have got to pull yourself together. I am tired of seeing Eliot like this—he should be focusing on his own recovery, not _yours_.”

Quentin spread his arms. “Take it up with him then,” he retorted.

“Oh, suck it up. Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Margo said, curling her lip. “You’ve been wallowing enough. Get it together, we’ve all been fucked in our own ways. You don’t get to claim all the emotional trauma here.”

“Fucking hell, Margo, tell me what you really think.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to be coddled? Give me a fucking break.” 

“Margo—”

“You think the rest of us are just doing fabulously? You think you’re the only one in pain?” Margo shook her head, and Quentin caught a flicker of sadness through her armor. “Eliot’s still healing, Alice has been depressed, Josh—”

She cut off, letting his name hang in the air as she took a shaky breath.

Guilt gnawed at Quentin. Josh, trapped in Blackspire forever with the Monster.

“Look, blame me for losing Josh, whatever,” Quentin said, gritting his teeth. “But if you want to know why Eliot is upset, you better ask him, because I—”

“Wait,” Margo said, holding up a hand. “You think—” She cut off, scoffing. “You think I _blame_ _you_ for Josh?”

“I mean, _don’t_ you?” Quentin shot back. “Josh is gone, and I’m here, and let’s face it, Margo—you only ever tolerated me for Eliot’s sake. The only reason Josh is there instead of me is because the Monster can’t possess him. But you and I both know that you’d rather it be me.”

“Okay, _fuck_ you, Quentin,” she said, her eyes widening. 

“You should’ve just let me be the one to stay in Blackspire. I _wanted_ to. Then Josh would be here, and you could have Eliot to yourself, and you wouldn’t have to deal with my _wallowing_.”

“Jesus, Q. Josh may be trapped there, but at least he isn’t _dead_. If you thought for one _fucking_ second that we were all just going to let you stay in Blackspire just because you’re fucking suicidal—” 

“That’s not what this is,” Quentin interrupted quietly, taken aback.

“ _Isn’t_ it?” Margo said, accusing. “The Monster would’ve killed you, and you were _begging_ to be the one to stay. What would _you_ call that, Q? Because I’d say that’s pretty goddamn self-destructive.”

“Someone had to step up,” Quentin said, defensive, his voice getting heated. He didn’t like her accusation. Or the fact that she _knew,_ that she’d _seen_ him. “And I was the one who was fucking babysitting the Monster for months, and at _that_ point, you know, you were all totally cool with letting him drag me around and—”

He cut off, running a hand through his hair.

Margo’s chin trembled, just barely.

“What do you _think_ would’ve happened, Q? If the Monster—who, by your own fucking admission, got all attached to you—realized that _you_ betrayed him and took him back to his prison. What do you fucking _think_ he would’ve done to you _then_?”

Quentin clenched his jaw.

“Yeah,” Margo said, lifting her chin. “That’s what I thought.”

“And so fucking what?” Quentin muttered, half to himself.

Margo narrowed her eyes. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Quentin met her gaze, as steadily as he could. “What else is new?”

She raised a hand, taking a breath and a beat. Quentin was frankly a little surprised to see her trying to calm down at all. He’d thought once they finally had this fight, she’d be ready to kill him.

“This isn’t about you and me,” Margo said, her voice quieter. “This is about Eliot.”

“What do you want from me?” Quentin said. It came out more tired than angry.

“Now? Fucking nothing. I want _nothing_ from you anymore, Coldwater,” she replied.

“Then why are you _here?”_

She glared at him, and it took a lot of Quentin’s willpower to not shrink away from all the fury.

“You know, I waited by his bed in that goddamn hospital every day for six fucking weeks, _alone_ ,” Margo snapped. “You should’ve _been_ there. We _needed_ you. I needed you.”

Quentin was wearing thin, drained by all of this. “You mean like I needed you, when I had to watch the Monster wearing Eliot like a costume every day for fucking _months_? When I had to keep the Monster from _killing_ him? When I had to be the _only_ one saying we needed to save Eliot, the _only_ _one_ telling everyone that sacrificing him wasn’t an option, because _you weren’t there_.”

“So, what, after that, your job was done?” Margo shot back. “No need to check if he was ever going to fucking wake up, right? Six weeks, Q. Did you even care?”

Quentin took a step back, feeling a real, physical pain in his chest at that. “Fuck you, Margo.”

Margo pursed her lips, glaring. She looked Quentin up and down, contempt in her eyes. “If you ever loved him, you will pull yourself together,” she said, her voice low. “Because he has been through enough already, and he will hurt himself trying to help you.”

Quentin let out a short, breathless laugh. “ _If I ever loved him_ ,” he echoed, his voice strained. He closed his eyes tightly, sighing, trying to gather himself. “Go home, Margo. You wanna know what happened between me and Eliot, ask him.”

She scoffed, walking briskly towards the door. Quentin began to let out a breath of relief.

But then Margo hesitated, her hand braced on the open door. She slammed it shut, turning back to him.

“No. You know what, _no._ You don’t get to try and tell me we weren’t really friends, that it was all because of _Eliot,_ and then kick me out again. Nice fucking revisionist history, Q, I’m sure it fits well with your fucking pity party here, but you were one of my _best friends._ It wasn’t just me and Eliot and then you and Eliot, it was all three of us, and _you’re_ the one that left.”

Quentin closed his eyes. Everything hurt. “Margo—” he said, his voice broken and empty.

“And what exactly was I supposed to _do,_ Q? All I could _fucking_ do was stop you from throwing your life away and locking yourself up with the Monster to die. And then Eliot was in a coma, and you weren’t _there,_ and I—” She cut off, laughing. “I don’t know what I was supposed to _do.”_

“I don’t know either,” Quentin said softly. “I’m just—I’m so fucking tired, Margo. After… after everything, it was hard to even _look_ at Eliot and not see… I couldn’t handle it.”

“Yeah,” Margo said, sighing. “Well, you should’ve _told_ me that. We could have dealt with it together.”

Quentin swallowed. The silence between them felt heavy and dark. Desperately, he wanted the anger, the fury back. The fight was better. This dark heavy silence was enough to drown in. There was too much pain here.

He knew that she was the only other person who understood, the only other person who even came _close_ to understanding. She loved Eliot as much as he did.

He would never have wished it on her, spending all that time with the Monster. But he just couldn’t explain the depth of just how horrific it was, all those months, having to look at Eliot’s face like that. He never, not once, stopped hoping that it would just suddenly be Eliot again. So every day was another loss, another disappointment, another jolt of pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, sincerely. “For not being there. I would’ve been there if I hadn’t been so…”

Margo nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry, too. For… for not seeing how far gone you were until it was almost too late. God, we’re all just so goddamn sorry all the time, aren’t we?”

At least they could keep apologizing and forgiving, Quentin figured. At least they still had that. If nothing else, they had their fucking apologies.

\---

Eliot had toyed with the idea of getting another charmed flask. Or just going the old-fashioned way and buying several bottles of brandy. He remembered how much _better_ it could be to just feel nothing at all, to numb himself with alcohol and drugs and not think about all the horrible things lurking behind it.

He’d paused in front of a few bars, a few bodegas. It was tempting to just regress back into avoidance. Who cared, right? Just construct the façade, become the person you made yourself, don’t let reality and sincerity in. Stay numb.  

But Eliot wasn’t that person anymore. He didn’t want to be.

He couldn’t just refuse to feel, refuse to face everything.

So Eliot straightened his spine, coaxed whatever courage he had, ignored his overwhelming urge to run away.

He started towards Quentin’s place, his feet dragging.

His courage was hard to muster.

How could he face Quentin now? How could he look him in the eyes?

Was he even really helping, or was he only hurting Quentin more?

Running away looked better and better with each step he took.

He was about a block away when he stopped walking.

He took a breath, leaning against a wall, telling himself it was because he was still recovering, he needed to rest. It was the stitches, it was his leg, it was the pain. Physical pain explained it away, explained why he couldn’t keep forcing himself forward.

How was Quentin going to look at him? With contempt, betrayal, anger, hurt? Did Quentin hate him for everything that had happened?

Would Quentin even let him in the door?

Eliot wouldn’t blame Quentin if he slammed the door in his face.

He wasn’t sure he could stand any of it.

Ashamed, afraid, hurting, Eliot turned away. He took a different path.

He couldn’t really talk to Margo about this. Part of him wanted to, part of him wanted to tell her everything, to get the comfort of his best friend. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure what she really thought, but she was lacking in patience for Q at the moment.

Eliot loved Margo, but this was not exactly her area. And anyway, she was still dealing with the fallout from whatever she and Josh had been.

And so, Eliot went elsewhere.

Alice looked less surprised to see him this time.

She smiled. “Hey, Eliot. Tea again?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Thank you.”

She seemed less frantic, though he supposed showing up unannounced after being in a coma for six weeks was probably a little shocking. This time, at least, she’d already known he was awake.

Sitting at her kitchen table, Eliot tapped a finger against his mug. It was a Brakebills mug, white with the logo prominent. His mind drifted to the school, how all of the bullshit that had happened had pushed them all away from it. How many classes he’d missed, how much time they’d lost. They weren’t getting their degrees anytime soon.

“It’s the mug that Quentin fixed,” Alice said.

Eliot looked up. “Sorry?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t have a Brakebills mug. I’m not exactly the school spirit type,” she said. “But that mug, it’s the one Quentin fixed when he found out his discipline.”

“Ah, yes,” Eliot said. “Minor mendings. I’ve been told.”

“I brought it back with me just in case. He’s so sentimental, I thought he might want it. When he’s…” She trailed off.

“When he’s himself again?” Eliot suggested.

She nodded.

Eliot ran a finger down the side of the mug. You’d never know it had been broken.

“Do you know who has his Fillory books?” Eliot asked.

Alice frowned. “I mean. Doesn’t he have them?”

Eliot shook his head. “Not that I saw.”

She glanced towards the window. “So you did see him, though?”

“Yes,” Eliot replied, keeping his eyes on the mug. Minor mendings. It fit Quentin, even when he was broken.

“How is he?” she asked quietly.

Eliot looked up at her. She was avoiding eye contact.

“Less than ideal,” he replied. It was honest enough, anyway.

She let out a thin breath, taking a sip of her tea and looking down.

Eliot looked out the window. The overcast made the world a little darker. He thought about how permanent the summer always felt in Fillory, how seasons didn’t work the way they did here. How the clouds never seemed bleak or threatening.

“Did Quentin ever tell you about the Mosaic?” Eliot asked quietly.

She didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Bits and pieces,” she replied. “Margo told me more than he did.”

“Margo doesn’t even know that much about it,” Eliot admitted. He kept his eyes on the window. He’d meant to tell Margo about it, but it was just too much. It felt too heavy and important to talk about. He wouldn’t have known where to start.

And after rejecting Quentin, it had been painful to think about.

“It explained a lot,” Alice said. “When I heard about it. He was so different so suddenly on the key quest—steadier, calmer. He looked at me differently. I hadn’t understood why.”

“I guess that’s what happens when you suddenly have fifty years worth of memories,” Eliot replied. He sighed. “I’m sorry. This is weird. Isn’t it?”

Alice let out a short laugh. “It’s very weird. Our history is always going to be messy. But it’s kind of nice, too, really. To talk to someone who…”

“Someone who gets it?”

She smiled. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s not the same. But he was my first love, you know?”

She was a long way from the girl that Quentin had cheated on, a long way from the girl that Eliot had crowned Queen Alice, the Wise, with some apologies and swallowed pride.

“Alice, I’m really trying to help him, but honestly, I think I’m going to fuck it up. And it’s possible I already have.” _Probable, really._ If Quentin’s expression and broken tone were any indication.

“We’ve all fucked up,” Alice replied. “You’re in pretty good company.”

Eliot smiled a little. “That sounds familiar.”

Alice took a sip of her tea, glancing out the window before looking back at him. “You know, Eliot, everything Quentin did was to save you. He really loves you. I mean, it’s already pretty promising that he let you in at all. I don’t know that you really could fuck it up, just being there for him.”

Eliot looked down into his mug. “Yeah,” he said softly.

All he could think about was how he’d already fucked up being loved by Quentin in the first place.

“Can I tell you something?” Eliot said, glancing at Alice hesitantly.

She shrugged, looking a little apprehensive. “Sure.”

“After Q and I remembered the Mosaic, he… Well, he wanted to… give us a shot.” Eliot cleared his throat, frowning. “Just like that. He was already ready. And I rejected him.”

“Hm.” Alice looked away, with a small, sad smile. “That kind of explains it.”

“What?” Eliot asked.

She shook her head. “Why he, out of the blue, wanted to try with me again. I mean, I know why _I_ liked the idea. I’d just… I’d just spent a day with past him, the him from Brakebills South. And it had been so long since… Since he’d looked at me like _that._ Since anyone had. I guess I missed it.”

“Alice, I—”

She raised her hand a little, stopping him. “It’s so like him, so _Quentin,_ to when he’s in a bad place, to reach for whatever—or whoever—is nearest that could make him… I don’t know, feel something?” She sighed. “And after watching him putting all of himself into saving you, I thought for sure… But if you’d already said no, if he didn’t think…”

Eliot didn’t say anything, just stared at her, wondering.  

“Well,” she said. “I’m glad I know why, at least.”

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said, because he really didn’t know what else to say.

She smiled. “Don’t be. Quentin and I, we never really fit together. What we had, it was good, and I did love him, but it never could’ve lasted. And there at the end, we were both just trying to get back some semblance of normalcy, some semblance of happiness. After such an awful year.”

 _Maybe that’s all he wanted from you, too,_ a small part of Eliot thinks to himself. _Maybe you were right all along, and he was just looking for normalcy in a moment of weakness and you were right to reject him, because he’ll never actually see you the way you see him._

He tried the shake it away, taking a long sip of his tea and pulling himself together.

“You’ve really mellowed, you know that?” Eliot said.

“So have you,” Alice replied.

“We’ve come a long way.”

“Well, we had to grow up at some point, didn’t we?”

Eliot smiled. “Living up to your title as always, Queen Alice the Wise.”

Alice let out a small, genuine laugh. “So are you going to tell him the truth now? That you love him, too, I mean.”

Eliot paused, a silence stretching a little.

“Well, I sort of already did tell him,” Eliot admitted. It was surprising, how easy it was to be honest with Alice. How easy it was to talk to her. It felt like a shame they couldn’t have been like this from the start. “That’s sort of why I’m here. He… did not take it well. And I couldn’t face him again.”

Alice shook her head. “Coward,” she said, kindly, fondly.

Her tone was so gentle that it almost made the word sting less.

“I know,” Eliot replied.

Alice reached forward, putting a hand over his and squeezing lightly.

“You know, El, in my apology tour, I got quite a range of reactions,” she said with a small smile. “Almost no one forgave me right away. Saying you’re sorry is just the first step. You have to stick around to prove it, too.”

He managed to return her smile. “It kind of sucks, though. Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s hard,” she replied. “And it takes a while. But don’t you want to be around to watch it get better?”

“It’d be easier to stick around if I really knew it would get better,” he said slowly. It almost felt to true to admit, this fear.

“Eliot, speaking from experience, you’re hard to stay mad at,” she told him, some amusement in her tone. “Trust me, he’ll forgive you. You just need to be there to see it.”

“Thank you,” Eliot said, sincerely. “Queen Alice the Wise.”

Alice smiled warmly. “Anytime, King Eliot the Spectacular.”

\---

Quentin woke up the next day, remembering in the dawn light coming through the blinds that he was alone.

Remembering that Eliot hadn’t come. Remembering the barely-resolved fight with Margo.

He felt both a dark sort of relief and a sickening feeling in his stomach.

Quentin had never given up on anyone except himself. And now, it seemed possible that everyone else had given up on him, too.

After everything he’d done, after every part of himself that he’d given away in the interest of helping everyone, after every moment that chipped away at him, the very people he’d been fighting for had given up on him.

He knew where he stood, at least.

Another reason he should have been the one to stay in Blackspire with the Monster. Another reason they should have let him stay there from the beginning, and they could have avoided so much of _this._

If he was always someone that they could give up on, why hadn’t they done it sooner and saved everyone the time and trouble?

It occurred to Quentin that a part of him had wished someone would prove him wrong. A part of him had wanted someone to refuse to give up. A part of him had wanted someone to tell him he was worth more than that.

A part of him had wanted that person to be Eliot.

But what else could he expect? Eliot had pushed him away, kept him at a distance since the Mosaic. He hadn’t been worth Eliot’s bravery and persistence then, so why would that change now?

Well. It didn’t matter.

Everyone had given up. They were going to leave Quentin alone, like he’d told them to.

It was what he’d wanted.

He leaned back into the couch, letting the fireworks fade away.

And then there was a gentle knock at the door.

Quentin’s heart beat harder.

Julia, maybe, in one last attempt. Penny, maybe, just to appease Julia. Margo, maybe, to yell at him again, having remembered more things he’d done wrong.

Not Eliot. Quentin couldn’t let himself hope that it might be Eliot.

He went to the door.

And there he was.

Hazel eyes rimmed with red, shoulders uncharacteristically hunched, looking tense and nervous and like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

Maybe he hadn’t given up yet. Or maybe he was only here to inform Quentin that he had, let him know that he’d won.

“Eliot,” Quentin said.

“Hey,” Eliot replied softly.

“You didn’t come yesterday,” Quentin said, _hating_ how it sounded. Hating how it sounded like he’d wanted Eliot to come. Hating how he sounded upset, too open, too vulnerable. “You said you were going to.”

Eliot looked away. “Yes, well, I thought after—well, after we talked, I thought I might give you a little more time,” he said, his voice strained. “I didn’t want—well, I wasn’t sure…”

“Sounds a lot like you were _afraid,_ El,” Quentin replied pointedly. He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Eliot wouldn’t make eye contact. “I deserved that,” he said. “I’m here now.”

“I can see that,” Quentin said dryly.

Eliot hesitated, glancing up. He _almost_ met Quentin’s eyes, but his gaze flitted away at the last moment. “May I come in?”

Quentin’s grip tightened on the doorknob. “No.”

Eliot exhaled. “Right.”

“What are you doing here, El?” Quentin said.

Eliot closed his eyes. “I’m here because I care about you, Q.”

“Clearly.” Quentin knew he wasn’t really being fair. But no part of this was fair.

Eliot finally met his eyes, and this time, Quentin had to look away. There was too much hurt, too much guilt, too much uncertainty.

“You can hate me if you want,” Eliot said. “But I am not going to just leave you here. I’m not giving up on you. I should have been here yesterday, and you’re right, I was afraid. I’m sorry. I’m trying, Q.”

_I’m not giving up on you._

Quentin’s eyes pricked with tears, a sense of relief unwinding in his chest.

He looked down, running a hand over his hair. “I don’t hate you, Eliot,” he said quietly. _I could never hate you._

“I’m glad to hear that,” Eliot replied, earnestly. His voice was soft and warm.

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before glancing up. Eliot was gazing at him with such open affection, a small, tentative smile on his face. Quentin felt a tugging in his chest, an urge to reach up and hug him, bury his face in Eliot’s shoulder.

How long had it been, since they’d gotten to do that?

Quentin stepped aside, opening the door wider.

Eliot didn’t move.

“What are you, a vampire?” Quentin mumbled, his face a little hot. “Just come in.”

And then Eliot smiled, bright and open and sincere. Quentin felt his chest tighten.

Eliot walked in, and for a moment, it looked like he was reaching out to brush a hand against Quentin’s shoulder. He jerked his hand back abruptly, flexing it and letting it hang by his side.

He walked over to the coffee table and sat down on the floor.

Quentin followed slowly.

He hesitated, unsure.

He sat down next to Eliot, just close enough for their legs to brush.

Eliot glanced at Quentin, searching. Quentin looked away.

They were both frozen for a few moments, Quentin’s heart beating fast.

Eliot let out a small sigh, shifting so that his leg was pressed against Quentin’s knee.

Quentin’s heart was practically jumping into his throat. All those feelings he’d pushed away when he first saw Eliot at his door, the relief, the hope, the love, it was all coming up. Slipping out of the box he’d shoved them in. He swallowed, a little choked up.

But there were also still the feelings about Eliot’s rejection—the hurt, the betrayal, the loss. The knowledge that it had been for nothing.

Quentin stared down at his hands, wondering if he should be doing something with them.

“I missed you,” he said, barely audible.

There was a long beat of silence where Quentin could hear his own pulse.

Eliot reached over, tentatively brushing his knuckles against Quentin’s thigh before pulling back. “I missed you, too,” he said.

“Not just while you were possessed,” Quentin went on, keeping his voice quiet. “I mean, I—obviously, I missed you then. God, so fucking much… But I mean, after the Mosaic… We’d had this whole life, where—where we were always… And then I had to, I don’t know, let it go. _Adjust_. But I—I _missed_ you.”

Eliot cleared his throat, and Quentin glanced over quickly, catching the shine of tears in Eliot’s eyes before he angled his face away from Quentin.

“I know what you mean,” Eliot replied. “It was hard to sleep alone.”

It was such an honest, sincere thing to say that it caught Quentin off guard. Quentin studied Eliot, the tension in his shoulder, the way his fingers twitched, the way he was still hiding his face.

This was hard for Eliot. He knew it was.

Eliot was really trying.

“Do you ever…” Quentin started. He took a breath. “Do you ever wonder if, I don’t know, the cottage is still there? If it looks the same?”

Eliot’s shoulders relaxed a little. “I thought about checking,” he said. “I wanted to see if the door had been painted. If the planters we built were there.”

“To see if it really happened?” Quentin asked.

Eliot nodded. “I never went looking, though,” he continued quietly. “I was afraid.”

Quentin chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. He pushed some hair back, a little nervous. “Afraid that it would be real or that it wouldn’t be?”

Eliot glanced back at Quentin, meeting his eyes. “Both,” he said. “Either.”

Quentin softened. He understood. Both options were terrifying in different ways.

“It doesn’t really matter, though,” Eliot said, looking away again. “It doesn’t matter if the door is blue. The memories are real.”

“Sometimes they feel more real than anything else,” Quentin said.

“Fifty years,” Eliot replied.

Because that was it, right? Even though they hadn’t lived it, even though they were still twenty-something grad students who didn’t know what they were doing half the time, they had an entire lifetime of memories that belonged to them. That existed between them

It was exactly the kind of nonsense magic bullshit that made Quentin’s head spin.

“Who gets proof of concept like that?” Eliot said, almost to himself.

Quentin glanced over at him.

“When you broke free, when you told me you were alive…” Quentin said.

Eliot visibly tensed again, the muscles of his arms taut.

Quentin shook his head, turning away.

“No, it’s okay,” Eliot said softly. “Ask.”

“In that moment, I felt like it might… mean something,” Quentin replied. “But then the more I thought about it, I thought… Well, I thought it was just, you know, a way to prove it was you. Like. Just something only you and I would know.”

“It did mean something,” Eliot said. His voice seemed distant. “It was a confession. And an apology. The best I could do.”

Quentin studied Eliot, his heart hurting. Eliot was being so honest, so open. And Quentin could see, visibly, tangibly, how hard it was for him. Eliot was _trying._

Something in Quentin wanted to meet him halfway. If Eliot could try, so could he.

Quentin cleared his throat. “So, um, I’ve heard about how there are places to get food outside.”

Eliot glanced back at him, smiling, his eyes cautiously hopeful. “I’ve heard about that, too,” Eliot replied slowly.

“I don’t know, I thought that might be interesting,” Quentin said, looking down.

“Let’s give it a shot then,” Eliot said brightly. “Shall we?”

_What if we gave it a shot? Why the fuck not?_

“Yeah,” Quentin replied.

Quentin felt tired and a little nauseous and anxious at the prospect. He wasn’t sure how well it was going to go. He could feel himself wanting to curl in, hide in the dark and wait out the end of the world.

_But it was worth a shot, wasn’t it?_

Quentin’s anxiety was putting him on edge.

As they got to their feet, Eliot touched Quentin’s shoulder, softly, casually, like an instinct. Quentin, like an instinct, flinched.

Eliot pulled his hand back immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t—Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Quentin took a deep, slow breath. _Eliot. Not the Monster. It’s Eliot. There’s no one more safe than him._

Eliot stepped away, giving Quentin some distance.

“Wait, no, it’s—” Quentin started. His voice was shaking a little. “It’s okay, I—”

“You don’t have to—” Eliot said softly.

“No, I—”

Quentin cut off, sighing. He turned to Eliot, trying to find the words, trying to find what he wanted to say.

Eliot look down at him, with concerned, pained eyes.

And Quentin had no words.

Standing in front of Eliot, Quentin felt everything between them weighing the air down.

Like an instinct, he reached out, taking Eliot’s hand and holding it in both of his. He ran his thumbs along the sides of Eliot’s palm, down his fingers, interlacing them together.

Eliot’s breath hitched.

He moved closer, barely meaning to, until they were almost touching, until Quentin could feel the warmth, until their interlaced hands were the only things keeping their chests apart.

Quentin rested his forehead into Eliot’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt something untangle inside him, some unnamable tightness loosen. Eliot was _here,_ and he’d _missed_ him, and they hadn’t gotten the chance to…

Slowly, hesitantly, Eliot wrapped his free arm around Quentin’s back, bringing his hand up to tangle his fingers in Quentin’s hair. Cupping the back of Quentin’s head, Eliot pulled him closer.

“You were gone for so long,” Quentin murmured into Eliot’s shoulder, feeling himself getting choked up. “I thought…”

“I’m here now,” Eliot replied, pulling back slightly to kiss Quentin’s forehead.

They stayed like that for some time, Quentin’s heart pounding.

It was all so much, it was all so overwhelming.

How could they manage it?

Eventually, Quentin pulled back, clearing his throat and steadying his hands. “So. Outside.”

Eliot smiled, fondly, taking his hand like it was natural. “It’ll be great, I promise.”

\---

It took some time, it took some coaxing, it took several days sitting in the sun in the park, but Eliot managed to get Quentin to come see everyone else.

They’d been getting together, some or most of them on a nearly weekly basis.

It was always at least Eliot, Penny, and Kady. It was Kady’s place that ended up being the gathering place, and Penny and Eliot were somehow the most invested in maintaining this kind of comfortable time. Margo and Julia usually came, too.

Alice was harder. Despite everything, Alice still didn’t really feel as though she was wanted there. She’d told Eliot as much. He’d had to take her hands and insist to her that they’d all forgiven her completely at this point, and that they all wanted her around.

She didn’t come every week, but she did come around more often.

After a while, Quentin was finally ready to come, too.

It was the first time they were all in the same room since they’d gone to see Eliot in the hospital.

Eliot had been unconscious for that, so he couldn’t exactly speak to how it measured up. The atmosphere in the room was a little uncomfortable, a little tense. People avoiding eye contact, being overly polite.

It wasn’t exactly a big moment or anything. Eliot had made it as low-effort as possible, despite his desire to make an event of it. If it had been solely up to him, they might’ve had a dinner party with wine and cocktails.

As it was, Eliot figured that might be too much pressure. Everyone was tense enough.

And so, instead, it was just all of them with various kinds of take-out in the living room at Kady’s place.

Kady’s place, where Eliot knew they’d spent much of their time, when the Monster was around. The place did feel familiar to him, in a way he didn’t want to indulge. He knew whose memories were here, and they weren’t his. It was better to write over them with this simple, sweet memories of meals with friends.

“Okay, who ordered pizza with pineapple, because someone better leave,” Penny said suddenly.

“My apartment, asshole, you leave,” Kady replied, grabbing herself a slice.

“I’m the one that paid for the pizza, I didn’t sign up to pay for _this,”_ he said.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” she said, pushing a piece towards him.

The tension in the room lessened, bit by bit, at the bantering and the smiling and the talking. It wasn’t quite comfortable, it wasn’t quite peaceful, but Eliot could envision it.

\---

Julia settled down next to Quentin on the floor, as everyone else was talking and laughing. “Hey, Q,” she greeted quietly.

Quentin shot her a weak smile. “Hey, Jules.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

Quentin swallowed, looking away. He hadn’t been sure if anyone would be. He hadn’t been sure how effectively he’d pushed everyone out of his life for good.

“Hey,” she said, nudging his arm. “You’re never getting rid of me. You know that, right?”

He smiled, a little more genuinely, a little easier. She’d always been good at figuring out what was bothering him. Well, for the most part, anyway.

“I hear you’re getting magic back,” he said lightly.

She sent up some fireworks, and Quentin felt a jolt of pain. “Party tricks,” she said.

Quentin cast, offering up one of the small rainbows. “The best kind of magic, I think,” he replied.

She smiled. “It’s nice to handle the simple things,” she said. And he understood.

Quentin hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For pushing you away. For not being there for you these past few weeks.”

She brushed some hair back from his forehead and it was like no time had passed.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “For not knowing how to help you. I just thought we’d figure it out, like we always do. I didn’t know how bad it had gotten.”

“Seems like we’re always apologizing,” he said quietly. Thinking of Eliot. Thinking of Margo. Thinking of Alice.

“And we’ll keep fucking up and we’ll keep apologizing and we’ll keep forgiving,” Julia replied, her voice gentle. “Because that’s what we do.”

Quentin cracked a smile. “Seems kind of bleak,” he said, and it was half of a joke.

“It’s human,” she said.

\---

“Well, Coldwater is here, at least,” Margo muttered to him, drinking her sparkling wine. “Took long enough.”

“Bambi…” Eliot started.

Margo shook her head. “I _am_ glad he’s here,” she said, her voice lowered, sincere. “We’ll be okay. Me and him, but also all of us, I mean.”

Eliot cracked a smile. “Oh, Bambi, we’ll be great,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.

She smiled back, in a familiar way. “It’ll just take some time, like everything else.”

Alice drifted over to them, looking a little stiff and nervous.

“Hey, kitty cat,” Margo said, touching Alice’s hair affectionately.

Alice smiled, quick and tense. “Hi.”

 Margo let out a short laugh. “I am getting you a drink,” she said. “You look like you’re gonna have a fucking ulcer.”

She squeezed Eliot’s hand before heading toward the fridge.

Eliot watched Alice, her eyes drifting back to where Quentin was sitting on the floor.

“You gonna talk to him? Clear the air?” he asked.

Alice shook her head. “I don’t think now’s the time. There’s too much. We’ll get there.”

Eliot took her hand, squeezing lightly. “It’s all one day at a time, Quinn.”

\---

Quentin stood out on the balcony smoking, overlooking the city. He focused on the lights and the familiar noises, trying to distract from everything else.

“Hey,” he heard behind him.

He jumped, startled.

Eliot winced. “Sorry, I was actively trying to not surprise you.”

Quentin shook his head. “It’s alright, just… It’s gonna be like this for a while.”

Eliot walked over to him, standing next to him and facing the view.

“It’s kind of nice, to see everyone like this,” Eliot said. “No quest, no mission.”

Quentin took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s kind of a lot,” he admitted.

Eliot let out a small laugh. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I got pretty used to the quiet.”

Quentin offered his cigarette, but Eliot shook his head.

“I quit,” he said.

“Really?” Quentin said, glancing at him. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“A lot has changed,” Eliot said simply.

Quentin wasn’t sure what to say, so he let the silence stretch. It was almost comfortable, almost like the kind of silence you get when you’ve been around someone so long that you no longer need to fill the space with words. Almost like they’d spent a lifetime together.

Quentin turned towards Eliot, starting to say something, then hesitating. Eliot turned, looking at him expectantly, patiently.

And Quentin had to ask.

“We can’t get that moment back,” Quentin said quietly. “But just—tell me. If you could go back, if you could change what you said… What would you say now?”

Eliot glanced down, a sad smile on his lips. “I don’t think I’d say anything. You’d have said _why the fuck not,_ and I would have gone straight to kissing you.”

Quentin looked up at him. The way he was looking away. The regret in his eyes. The resignation.

He thought it was too late, Quentin realized. Eliot already thought he’d been rejected, already thought that because the moment was over, the chance was gone.

After all that time of wishing, of wanting, of hurting, Quentin knew. He knew that everything between them meant as much to Eliot as it did to him. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, here and now.

And suddenly, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Quentin moved forward, grasping at Eliot’s shirt collar and pulling him down as Quentin stood on the tips of his toes to meet him halfway.

Eliot made a small noise of surprise as he was jerked down, stumbling slightly before catching his balance.

Quentin inhaled sharply as their lips brushed. There was a moment, a split second, where they were both still. One last question hanging in their hesitations.

And Eliot closed the distance. He brought a hand up to Quentin’s neck, dragging his thumb along Quentin’s jawline, and he kissed him, gently, lovingly.

Quentin couldn’t breathe for a few moments, as he felt Eliot’s hands and chest and lips against him. And then he pulled Eliot closer, desperately, pushing up against him. All his longing and all his heartache came bubbling to the surface, and all he wanted was _Eliot,_ here, against him, as close as they could manage.

And Eliot seemed to want that, too, as he wrapped his arm around Quentin, holding him tightly and kissing him deeply. Quentin could feel him smiling, feel his heart racing.

At a certain point, Quentin had to pull away to catch his breath. He kept his forehead against Eliot’s, his palm pressed against Eliot’s chest.

Panting, breathless, warm, he said—

“I love you.”

Eliot kissed him again, softly and slowly.

“I love you, too,” Eliot replied.

And for once, Quentin realized it might just be as simple as that.

\---

Nothing gets better all at once. It can’t. Pain doesn’t just go away.

But things _do_ get better. Slowly, gently. You barely notice it. The world just gets a little brighter, and you find that you have a favorite color again. You find joy in small things, until it’s enough.

Quentin didn’t see it as it was happening, the way the weight shifted off his shoulders, the way his smile became easier. Through those weekly meals with his friends, through his long overdue therapy sessions, through kissing Eliot, through finding himself enjoying reading and magic and food again. Enjoying the things he used to love, finding he could love them again. It was all a process, and it wasn’t exciting or heroic or daring. But it was enough.

Just sitting at the table over coffee one morning, Quentin looked at Eliot. Eliot, with his hair awry, sleep in his eyes as he leaned on his hand. And it hit Quentin. He was happy. The world was bright, he could see color, and mornings were quiet and beautiful. It wasn’t perfect, nothing ever was. But it was _enough._

Tears sprung in his eyes. _Happy._ Who’d have thought it was possible?

Eliot straightened up, getting more awake quickly. “Q, are you alright?” he asked, concerned, alarmed.

Quentin brought a hand to his mouth. “You know, I really am,” he said.

Eliot reached forward, not quite understanding, taking Quentin’s hand.

And it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I am on tumblr at official-mermaid, if you're interested.


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